Hush, Hush

For a writer there's nothing worst. We've got our personal black beast, our biggest drama. In a world full of new virus, the one known as "The Block" still remains (and will always be) for us the only thing we can't fight against nor destroy.
When there's the block, we aren't. When there's the block, our essence fades aways, leaving just an empty shell of us; when there's the block there's our body without our mind, hollow at the moment, pure, clear, virgin as a perfect snow flake. The difference here is that there's nothing perfect at all about a writer without the writing, about a writer without words, a writer who seems to have nothing to tell, nothing to talk about to his audience or just to himself.
Block is a bitch, you know, because there are no treatments, there's nothing we can do about it but wait and be very, be so patient. We can only live in a sort of rehab and hope that it'll be helpful to get better: a rhapsody, a book, a movie, a walk in a cold day surrounded by unknown people and a cig are quite enough to me to take a deep breath and calm down. But the truth here is that the only thing we can actually do for our being stuck is let life do its own natural progress, let life heal us, let life fill our temporary emptiness. We must take back control of our both mind and heart, set us free from the weights which oppressed us; we must let us breath reaching serenity.
If you're a writer I think you must take care of yourself, daily, of your soul first of all, because if you let the messes of life interfere and overwhelm your spirit you're not alive anymore, your stuck as stuck are your creativity and thoughts, your needs and wants.
The dude here is a real pain in the ass. Choose to write about it obviously makes you understand that I'm in a block right now; it seems I lost my words, my topics. I hope it'll get better soon, 'cause my own life natural progress is taking too much and quite enough of me.