The blank page

In academia it is called writer's block. That itchy, terrifying, disturbing feeling of simply having no words to jot down; no clever things to say. Pen in hand, and the whiteness of the page stretching further and further, growing into a gigantic, vast iceberg of empty that should preferably be full of words. At first it is not so bad; you can still recall the last piece of writing you did that you were proud of, not more than a couple of weeks ago. So you keep blaming it on your busy life, school work, social life, bartending; and you are most likely in your full right to do so, because life is, in fact, busy. There are places to be, people to see, and after all, there is no such thing as losing "it". The excuses, however, slowly evolve into desperation. You're willing to write about anything, even if it has to be about those ridiculous 18 year olds that you have to sit and listen to in the Friday afternoon tutorial at university. The Performance Studies table that always has something to say because, gosh, they're just feeling so damn creative and alternative all the time. You try to think of a funny twist to the story, a mocking voice that could make it all better and at least provide you with some words added to the iceberg, but time and time again you cannot seem to find anything amusing about those horrid teenagers in row two of the Narrating Selves class. You think of your last week experiences and try to pinpoint something, anything, that could be deemed at least a tad funny or entertaining to your now very limited audience, but soon realise that the week consisted of work, school, and an immense amount of sleep deprivation. So you continue to search in the pool of creativity, the one they're teaching you so much about in school. Maybe that's what it is; maybe that idea of imagination having to be believable has killed my flow. A rather odd statement, if you ask me, but the lecturers persist in their argument of all creation being influenced by some other form of creation. There is no such thing as pure, unique imagination in anyone; it is all a mixed drink, with far too many ingredients, like the Squashed Frog shot at work, of someone else's mix. Eventually, you sit down in front of the computer and wait for inspiration to fall into your lap after a long day at uni. And when all else fails and has failed, you write a blog entry on the inability to write anything.