I stare at the screen in the hopes that something will come to me but nothing does, the medication has killed me. I have no creativity left. Nothing stirs in my brain, the neurons dulled by the high doses of anti depressants and morphine till nothing fires right anymore and I am lost once again.
I stare at the screen, blankly. A thousand thoughts buzz just out of reach, but I cant access them to put them down into words. I sit scrambling and fumbling, agonizing over what to say and how to put it but nothing comes to me; nothing of worth or note.
I am a writer without a pen, a painter with no paints and I am sad. Sad that it has come to this and I have to be medicated to the point of losing who I am in order to function as a normal person. I am sad that I have had to give up a big part of me in order to function in this world.
But I had no choice. I had to make the decisions I made and destroy myself in order to rebuild, but what I have rebuilt is incomplete without my creativity, I am only part of myself, a piece is missing that I need to get back.
They call it writers block.
I call it Hell!

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