Creative Constipation

Her mind felt packed tight with rough edges, ideas of ceramic, brick, and stone. Heavy with unexpressed meaning, she dragged her thoughts across blank expanses, leaving nothing in her wake. Clean, white expanses unsullied by the stain of construction and creation sat like pristine accusations where dumping would be not only permitted, but encouraged.

Push, she told herself. Squeeze it out. Defile the virgin landscape. Unburden yourself.

But for all her effort, the page remained unchanged, as empty as if her head were as cavernous and resonant with unused space as anyone else’s. As if she were ordinary. As if the weight of unexpressed concepts did not bloat her skull.

She took a penknife, cut, bled out one letter, another, and another, and another.