I counted the rhythm. My bare arm laying over the top of its massive brown feathered body. Its chest rising and falling in sync with the expansion of lungs. My arm rising and falling with the chest.
What a simple thing a sign of life can be.
For the past week or so, I’ve been staring at a blank word document trying to make myself write something. Anything.
It’s not that I didn’t have anything to write. I have to finish writing features on games, work on job applications, create my class curriculum. The list goes on.
But the word document just sat, its cursor mocking my gaze with its blinks.
It’s my first true encounter of writer’s block; something I like to think I’ve encountered before on those long nights, writing my seminar papers at one in the morning, invoking a glass of red wine as my muse. But never to this extent.