The Block

by Noise Pollution

I am suffering from a serious case of writer’s block. I haven’t been able to write anything lately. Not songs, not blog posts, not even email responses to the few friends I have. It’s really taking a toll on me. I don’t know what the cause is. Maybe it’s the medication, taking my mind from me. Maybe I’m just paranoid about it being that. Maybe it’s the shitty job I have, which is sucking away at the edges of my existance, dulling what little individuality I have left. Maybe it’s the full stop that my life has come to, and I need to have some fresh experiences before I can write again. Maybe it’s just the whole “I haven’t been on drugs in over a year” thing finally catching up to me. I wish I knew what the root cause was, though knowing wouldn’t really help. I mean, I can’t quit taking my meds, I’m quitting my job regardless of its effect on my psyche, I don’t know how to get my life moving again, and I’m not all that interested in getting high again.

Maybe it’s because I’m actually (finally) getting over the ex-girlfriend from a year ago. You know, I could just be running out of things to bitch about. Well, no, that’s definitely not it, if I actually think about it. I fucking hate my job and can definitely bitch about that. I’ve been so miserable that I slashed up my arms again, and I had made it over two months without doing that.

God, I don’t know what my fucking problem is. Writing is all that I have. Without writing, I’m just another burned-out twenty-something with no direction in life. I mean, hell, even with writing I’m pretty much that, without it… I’m little more than a fucking husk of a human being. I hope something comes back to me. I hope it’s not gone forever. You can rest assured that if I end up with the impression that it’s never coming back, that I’ll… Well, you know. I’ll quit. No, not writing. Breathing. There’s not really any point to this whole thing, this “breathing” and this “experiencing” if that’s literally all I’m doing. If there’s no means and there’s no end then isn’t my existence just one big redundancy? “I want to contribute / to the chaos / I don’t want to watch and then complain.” This all feels so meaningless. I feel so small. I feel like there are a million paths I could be walking down right now, but I’m just standing still.

Where do I go from here?

[Quote is from the song Twin Sized Mattress by The Front Bottoms]

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