Writer’s Block

There's a dark wall where words look like clusters of letters randomized to not make sense. The wall is high enough that if I stand on my tippy toes, my fingers are almost long enough to touch the top--- almost... 

Low enough to the the light from the other side shine over it like a soft halo over an angel's head. The glow a torturous reminder of the freedom that light could bring. The darkness swirls the words around deconstructing sentences into stutters too difficult to decipher. 

My fingers begin to bleed from the attempts at grabbing the top. I fall, my toes cramping from over use, my head pounding with exhaustion. The words spin around me so fast, I shut my eyes to prevent the dizziness appearing from a mind so overly full, it falls just short of being able to let it all out. 

The yellow tint at the ceiling is the only reminder that there is a way out. If only the wall wasn't creating a shadow so large, then my mind would be able to find another way out. Just one sentence could create the wave that would bring that wall collapsing down. The rubble the only cue that there was ever an obstacle. 

But that sentence doesn't exist... yet anyway. Because before my mind can crack open that wall to let just enough light in for me to find the door, time must work to help erase the contractor who built the wall in the first place. 

ER