Fuck this. Fuck writers block.
My mind is scattered, ten words in.

The sound of shattering glass resonates from the other room. Drunken singing cracks the cerebral cortex, segregating thoughts before they procreate into sentences. Orphaned thoughts stumble through synaptic gaps, falling down.
Falling down while scraping palms and knees; learning to ride a bicycle for the first time. Hard to focus through countless lessons on what it takes to hurt less when you fall but it’s a lesson necessary to all. Would racing down a hill have any sense of exhilaration if there was no chance to fall? It’s not a possibility that leaves me enthralled.

The thoughts of others are racing down, and pulsating through each muscle, commanding movement. These thoughts tell me to “stop thinking and start acting.” Stop sitting at a blank computer screen. Stop listening to the sound of your friends laughing from the other room. Stop feeling the sun resonate heat through the window.
“Make your own heat,” the thoughts say to me “Go hit the ground harder than you are hitting these lettered keys”.

I could start writing outside, but each blade of grass acts as a catalyst for the attention deficiency I am already contending with. An artist shut off from his art. Shut off. Just shut it off.
Shut off the computer. Shut off the phone that beeps incessantly. Power it down.
“It’s empowering isn’t it?”
Empowering like a standing ovation, or like the admittance of a requited love.
Love.

The first time I felt love, I was getting a tattoo. I always think of the girl who breathed caffeine and nicotine, the girl who made me take the leap and embrace the needle; embrace the pain. I’ve learned from the pain. I learn from the fall; like learning to ride a bike. Love is the gravel dug deep into your palms. Love is the broken vase you cut your heel on. Love is the distraction of laughing friends. For me, love is a tattoo; a memory containing cathartic pain, commitments and lessons learned resulting in art well deserved.