Writer blocked

Frankly this post is a guilt trip for not having posted for eons. I have often sat at my computer hands poised, thoughts rushing without a satisfactory syllable being produced. The backspace remains my most rubbed off key on the keyboard with the spacebar a close second. What do I write about? Hmm...a pertinent question but somehow one that never rose before.

What can be significant enough to put into coherent and entertaining language and share with the world? Initially it is an overwhelming flood of ideas that storm into the mind . But one by one the elimination process cuts down on most, not good enough, not funny enough, not defined, not cogent, not credible, not this, not that....not...not ...not. Obviously my life does not make for good anecdotes for anyone but me. The one's that do make it from the editing shears begin with great promise...a few catchy phrases, some charming sentences swirl around alluding to the glorious possibilities of the poised hand waiting to embark on a torrent of eloquence. But alas! Nothing, maybe a few squirts of jumbled words and then the hiccups and then the pen runs dry. With persistence I attempt again and this time with lesser success. Something inside has bottled up and there is the realisation: I don't want to talk about it, whatever it is. I do not want to articulate it, nor pin it up for the whole world to see. I feel naked as raw emotions gnaw at the unperturbed surface, the scab is being peeled at, the wound almost exposed, but it would take much more than a few well phrased posts to tide this storm that brews inside. It may take a whole book yet, but for now the ink is clotted ... the scab survives yet again.