itchy hands

i keep wanting to write. but i do not know for whom am i writing to and what am i writing about. but my hands, ohh my perfectly mended hands that are so capable of typing itch to spread words and words across the blank pages that are staring back at my face. sometimes, i imagined these blank pages are somehow mocking me, taunting and teasing me for my disability to write these days.

i assume this is what us writers label as; writers' block.

damn it. my hands are madly itching. but my brain is drowning in chloroform, slowly transcending itself into REM sleep. my goodness. i am useless in the field of creating fictions nowadays. i need to buckle up. i need to write. or how the hell am i suppose to breathe?

if i were Earnest Hemmingway or maybe Edgar Allan Poe, i would have knelt for the help of alcohol, but i am not.

i just have to figure the state of affairs that i am in. and i need to unravel it.

j