From inside the quarry.

I don’t want to be afraid of the blank page. Or if I am afraid of it, I want to be only because I am so eager to fill it.

I am tiring of writing, and I am tired of not being able to write.

A fresh notebook used to excite me, but now all these books with crisp, clean pages are still empty. Instead, I find myself half-trying to chisel half-formed ideas into academic stone.

What I really fear is ending up with a lap full of formless gravel and an untouched sheaf of paper.