Sometimes, this blank screen terrifies me.
The cursor blinks, sometimes mocking, sometimes encouraging.
I think about it as soon as my eyes open in the morning, and I wonder what kind of day it will be.
Will it be a day when the words flow, wild and free?
Or one where the words are stuck in the endless ether between head and hands?
Or worse, one where there are no words at all?
The words are coming slower lately.
And I know that this is normal.
That this thing we call writing can be both friend and foe.
But sometimes, somewhere deep down, when the words and ideas refuse to come, I can't help but wonder.
What if I have no more stories left to tell?