Why don’t I write? It’s because I don’t have to. Because I don’t want to. Because I’m tired, lazy, or bored.
I don’t write when I’m busy, I don’t write when I’m sad, I don’t write when it’s raining, I don’t write when I’m glad.
If it isn’t the morning, then write I will not, the sky may be bright but my typing is fraught. If I don't have to do it, then why should I care, my words won't be read, so why put it out there?
Distractions are key, when there's nothing to write, blame the sun in the day and the stars in the night.
So late in the evening I give it a try, but the words just won’t come and I'm forced to deny that I’m a writer at all, in any sort of the word, because typing and scribbling, it's all so absurd.
I toss my blank sheet and head off to bed, with no single word dancing around in my head. I lay fast asleep instead of putting down ink, and then the next morning I awake in a blink.
I sit down with a pen, it feels poor in my hand, the typewriter keys don’t feel right when they land.
Yet here I am that eternal again trying to do what I know that I can, write something down, say anything at all, get over this block and find something to scrawl.
So I take in my breath and think, "what shall I to say?" The conclusion is clear, I'm not writing today.