So many walls stand before me, tall, wide, and all around. It is made of steel and stone, built by my own hands to block my view and way. Such things are done when one wishes to forget, wishes to avoid, or wishes to seal away a part of themselves out of fear or regret. The walls have chains that dangle down, chains that bind my mind in ways I can not even comprehend. The shackles cut into the flesh of my creativity, the ideas trickle down to the floor like blood, soon to be washed away by the mind numbing entertainment that I so desperately seem to seek.
The locks that bind the shackles to my wrists, the shackles that are linked to the chains, the chains to the walls that leave me in a dark and cold place, can they be broken. No I think not, however if I built the walls, forged the chains, fretted and locked the shackles, then it stands to reason that I have the keys. I will find a way out, find my key and unlock that which I have hidden away. With the stone of the walls I shall build a forge, with the iron I shall forge a weapon, something to slay the twisted things that haunt my dreams and whisper in the back of my mind that nothing I do is good enough.
I shall see the light of day again, even if it hurts my eyes. I shall once more gaze upon the moon and smile that twisted little grin as I place pencil against the page and call forth the images that I see when I close my eyes. Writer’s block, a box that I made for myself. Well let us see how long it lasts, after all all blocks can be carved into something else.