It no longer feels like writer's block . . . it's beyond that. It's the screaming for the desire to write, but the inability to do so. It's wanting to put down beautiful, soft words, the secrets and blood-flowing bonds that cannot be broken . . . but it's no longer easy. It's a chore rather than a soul-spilling pursuit of freedom. It's binding and it hurts, it aches like a wound that will not heal, that has no cure. There is no plant in the forest nor is there a kiss from a mother's lip that will stop the pain of being unable to spill the contents of a bottle that holds magic. The magic that puts fussy children to a graceful sleep; the magic that puts royalty into little girls with plastic tiaras; the magic that makes a grown man weep; the magic that puts courage into the meekest of creatures; the magic that puts ears onto the head that has never heard music. It's a shadow that is heavy with disappointment and despair that it has not been hunted and captured with no sign of release. It wishes to live on the page, to run and gallop freely, to look up and see nothing but pen. To see the continuation of that life.

And now it sinks, closes it eyes, and waits.