Twenty-Something Year Old Journalist

I cannot write.

As much as I physically, mentally, emotionally, desperately want to write, I can’t. 

A rolodex of ideas circulate my mind, but no action has been made. 

The countless, pathetic attempts at literature that have been tried on this page are shunned and exiled. 

All creative juices, stored even in the most hard to reach places, face a shortage. 

What at times is my greatest confidant, my greatest power I have to yield the skills I hold, has waged a war against me. 

It’s a mean and nasty war. 

But what am I to do? This enemy of war knows my every move, knows exactly how to awaken the deep, dormant thoughts that lie hidden below.

My frontline is in the process of getting a revamp, however, but they are much too adamant on taking their sweet, sweet time. 

So in the meantime, I have tried to carry on with my regularly-scheduled programming, but it seems this bloody battle within me has hit the satellites. 

But what am I to do? I know the facts. I know the things to be true and have a clear view on what is in front of me. But this mortal enemy fights every day to ensure a brave, new world arises from the ashes of combat. 

It makes it sound brutal and devastating, but somehow the same trees as yesterday stand, the oceans continue to ebb and flow, and the sun still shines tomorrow. 

But it has felt so cold and chilly, so hollow and dark. I know the sun will shine tomorrow, but it seems the rain won’t let up. 

All this to say, that is why I cannot write. 

What am I to do?