She struggles to force her mind to form the thoughts, the words, the ideas that it needs to say, drowning out her made up worlds to quench the status quo of reality.
She forgot where she flourishes, where she thrives. Trying to fit in where the air can’t fill her lungs.
She stares deeply into her blackened coffee, watching the reflections from the dim lights dance into fragile rings.
She remembers. She pauses. She breathes.
That’s why it all has been so incredibly hard, all crammed into the conformities of true life. She belongs in the fiction, in the dreaming, in the impossible. That’s where she belongs.
She pours the coffee down her throat, treasuring the warmth and comfort it brings. She closes down the browsers, the blogs, the social sites and she boots up her pretend worlds.
Slaying Writer’s block with one swift move.