She could feel her level of contentment decrease each passing day.
She read things which inspired her, she read beautiful words and of beautiful worlds with beautiful people and the happiness she felt was unparalleled.
Yet, when she sat down to write, words didn’t flow from her fingertips to the keyboard like they used to do before. Instead, she felt a pressure. She didn’t feel the wish to write, rather, she felt obligated to write.
It took two drafts which she never deleted, always saved, before she could produce something good enough to maintain the bar of her poems.
At the peak (and opportunity) of her writing career, she felt that somehow, she had already put forth her best work. The sense of fulfillment, pride and accomplishment that followed every time she entered the post button was hard to come by.
Her mind evaded thoughts, things that she knew she could put to words. Desperation turned to anxiety and he could feel it slipping by, as if the longer she didn’t write, the more it would escape and soon all she would be left with the ghosts of all-good-things-written. She would be a shell. She would be someone who would come to be known as the person who let the best thing that ever happened to her slip by.
The one thing that she was good at, she let it go.
So she wrote. Though it was rubbish, absurd, hopeless, immature; she wrote. She wrote of her block, she wrote of overcoming block, she wrote of what to write about- and when, it was done, she closed her eyes with her palm and would press the “Publish” button.
She made it a habit to write at least five days a week.
Was it sufficient? She wouldn’t know. Did it get better? She wouldn’t know.
For right now, all she cared was for the not let her rust herself. All she cared was for to stop her mind from stopping, because she knew if she did, there would be no one who would stop her thoughts from consuming her.