writer's block

it was blocked. no matter how she twisted and turned, no matter how she wiggled and tried to nudge it, to pry it free, it was blocked. there was a cold slab of marble remorse, of ivory sadness and opal resignation resting upon her head. worms became lodged underneath smooth stones in much the same way her writing was being smothered by the thousand emotions cluttering her mind.
what made it worse was that she was in no way depressive, not an inherently negative person. nor was she the smiling fat buddha of optimism, all generous wide grins and arms charitably spread over a bronze stomach. she was, however, a hopeful person, and high hopes had most often been her downfall. it was the hope that made her set pen to paper everyday, made her wait for the words to flow from her as they once did.

in between the lines of the written word was where she had always felt most comfortable. even as she became socially adept with time, it was never the true mind emitting from her lips. she sought meaning in the curls of the alphabet, bleeding dark through paper. she communicated all hopes, all joys, with family, friends, and loves, and now, when words had given up on her, she was fast becoming an empty shell. e-mails remained unresponded to, letters unopened. people stopped calling, the post ceased coming. all the while, ivy and cobwebs surrounded her brain and heart, and with lethargic unease, she carried around with her the writer's block.