Writers Block

I don't think there ever comes a time when a writer can't write something.  The block is not on the process itself but a block on the ideas behind the process.  Even now I could fill a couple of pages with just stream of consciousness thinking and to all intents this would be writing.

The point is: I can not see past these mental blocks to what is happening outside myself. I am developing cabin fever in the private cell of my mind. It is my cell, my sentence and only I have the keys to get out.  Only a person who is paid to listen to personal ramblings would say anything but, "What have you got to be down about? It is a cell of your own design. Can't you open the door, step outside and put it past you?" Unfortunately to the one who is down, that question can't be answered.  

It is like the parable about a man seeking help from a therapist for his depression.  His life has no meaning, he doesn't know how to find his joy and all he can do is become more and more defeated by a life going no where. The therapist tells him he is much too serious. He needs to find joy in any place he can. The doctor tells him that there is a circus in town and the clown at the circus is a very funny man. Watching him might bring the joy for living back into his life. The therapist's suggestion for treatment is to go and watch the clown.

The man says to the therapist... "I am that circus clown."

As you were,
Jay