Writing

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I have writers block. It happens I guess but it is painful. I keep thinking about what Sol Stein said – “Just write” – I guess there is something to just making yourself sit with your own thoughts, unless of course they are racing, like mine always seem to be. I want to be a good writer – really, but everything I write seems like some failed attempt at being heard. I am here to write, to experience, to find some hidden meaning of life as I traverse tiny streets and gaze up at beautiful skies. But it isn’t always beautiful is it? The streets here can be smelly with rotting garbage and the cars and motorbikes lend a dusty and diesel smell to the air. The cobblestones that, at a distance, appear so charming are dreadfully hard to walk on at times, especially when you are carrying heavy bags. It’s lonely here too. I put my headphones on and I walk, smiling dumbly – wishing I had words to share but they are as alien to me as I must be to them. I wonder what they think when they see the blonde girl who is often overly apologetic as she butchers the few words she does knows. Do they wonder what I am doing here? I do.

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