Not a word written. Thoughts inside my head, sentences, paragraphs, but nothing put on the page.

I look through books for inspiration. The cactus in my window is drooping, dying. That, along with Mishima, makes me think of death. Another poem on death. That’s just what the world needs.

So bright outside. The sun casts shadows. Grass is actually green today; there is life after winter. All these thoughts and nothing on the page. It’s enough to drive you crazy.

Maybe this is an exercise in futility. Thinking out loud. Waiting for the perfect combination of words to start with. And then the mind goes blank.

My greatest fear is to never be able to write again. To not think clearly. Everything in a haze. This is my greatest fear.