Writer’s block

Whenever I think that I’ve run out of ideas, that I have finally completely exhausted what I have to say and thus have nothing to write, I like to juxtapose two ideas in my mind—the first being the countless times in the past three months that I’ve felt this way, and the second being the staggering amount of writing I’ve done in the same exact period of time. The more I realize just how much I’ve actually accomplished in this time frame, the more it belies this sense of writer’s block. These feelings persistently creep up on me, attempting to sabotage my work and my consistency, and yet, time and time again, all the evidence points to the inevitable fact that they are a mere illusion. 

Regardless of the degree of resistance that I feel—this subconscious balking, urging me to give up and go back to my idyllic, apathetic, and purportedly easy and carefree life—I realized that if I merely sit down and put my mind to it, I often spontaneously find myself in a state of flow. No matter how much I previously felt like I didn’t want to read, exercise, or write a blog post or reflection, once I dispense of the resistance and galvanize myself to just move forward, I end up always putting my heart into it. 

There is undoubtedly still this subconscious component of my mind that is trying to get me to capitulate, to pull me back towards what it believes is safety and stability, to accept defeat and realize that all my ideas are hackneyed and banal, that I have nothing to contribute to this world, to convince me that I haven’t actually changed all that much in these past three months. 

I won’t fall for its tricks. I’ve heard enough of my own excuses. 

I know who I am, and I know what I’m capable of.