Headline: Ink Spilled Over Fatal Beauty

This week, I've gone through the ink from a new pen.  I'll start writing (I often write my entries out the old-fashioned handwritten way.)  but none of my scratches bear fruit.  I tire of them and toss them aside.  I'm a giant boa constrictor with a giant undigested ball of words stuck in my middle.

Since that doesn't provide a very pretty mental image, I'm posting this picture here.  It makes a boa constrictor seem like a beautiful creature.  Maybe they really are and I just haven't learned to appreciate their beauty.  Might that be the topic that breaks up the undigested mass?

This topic burns brightly and I skip pen and ink and rush straight to the keyboard hoping to catch a ride on the tail end of inspiration.  Soon, it's obvious that I missed my ride.  My killer boa seems to have found another mass of undigested words to swallow. 

For a few moments, I sit still; no clacking keys, no great burning ideas that insist on being written.  Tired of waiting, I chase after my boa, my fatal beauty.  I need to look at it more closely.  I'm sure it hides something, something that I desperately want.  It must also know why the words have failed to visit me through ink or keyboard.  "Curses on you, Fatal Boa Beauty!  Damned, Writer's Block.  I've got a rhythm to maintain.  Don't fail me now."

And yet, they fail me.  I think of the spilt ink and then of spilt milk and the crying over it.

WaaaaaHHHH!  In my mind, the milk sours within seconds and I inhale the memory of this sharp acrid aroma piercing the moment.  Ugh. . . .  My head starts to feel like this:

Now that my skull has met a tragic ending, the milk and ink have been spilt and I've wrangled with my inner boa,  the words begin to come.  They fall out in fits and starts.  The spaces between them, pregnant with hope and despair.  They lurch through time and space and filter out my fingertips and onto the screen.  How magical this process might seem to the medieval knight travelling in time or the Cro-Magnon female tending meat roasting over a fire?

In their world, I would be a goddess who could transform thought into odd symbols.  My words upon the computer screen would give me a power they would not understand.  Would I be as powerful as an ancient fertility goddess?  My physical resemblance to said fertility goddess does not elude me.

This resemblance brings me to my knees.  Humbled, I sit before the blank page and wait.