You stare at the monitor. You are compelled to write. You are pregnant with ideas. They all seem to be so clear till the moment your fingers touch the keyboard. Everythings gone. All you are left with is some very vague pictures of your originally clear ideas. You have it in your mind, still. You try to translate them into words. You can't find the right words. Every line written seems like an accomplishment. You read back. The lines seem to be just rot. You delete everything. You start over again. Now you are even more compelled to write. Now you cant complete even a line. Every single word has to be thought of. Every sentence has to be painfully strung together to make them sound coherent. You wonder why you are taking all the pain. But you can't go away. You thought you were good at something and you can't even do that. Writer's block phoenix says. But im not even a writer. Im nowhere as good as some others. Atleast you could express. Now you can't do that. You think everyone else is good. You don't think you are bad. But you think everyone else is good. Doesnt help you. In the meanwhile you realise some new ideas are trying to find their way in. Into your head. They seem to grow by the second. You sense them, you feel them, you think over them. You feel liberated. You wanna record these atleast. You run to the computer. You type the first word. The fingers seem reluctant to move. You push them hard. Somehow, one's fingers dont get along very nicely with one's ideas. Your head is pregnant again. You stare at the monitor. Helpless.