In my fingers, the soft pencil twitches above the paper, eager to begin. To smudge and line and create something. And I hold it aloft, above the paper, ready to create at a moment's notice, until eventually I sigh, put the pencil back in its special tin until it clicks shut. I don't know what holds me back, as there is so much that gives me inspiration to draw and write. But for some reason it won't come out.
Yesterday I lay in the sun, with leaves swirling around me loosened by the wind. Beautiful red and gold foliage against a winter blue sky. The air smelled fresh and clean and earthy. Little wisps of words and thoughts pirouetted around me and I could grasp them as easily as the taraxacum florets that whirled on the breeze.
Things are beautiful but I feel stymied. My qi is blocked.