late at night the stars are bright this is a lame and cliched rhyming couplet

Of late, I find myself facing the "Create Post" page, staring at this blank box and struggling to come up with things to write.

Some Great Person once said that the challenge, as well as courage, of a writer was the ability to face blank pages and fill them up. I don't quite agree, because filling pages with your ramblings, your thoughts, your polemics, your diatribes — these are so much easier to do than facing up to truth and writing as if you have the total intimacy of your audience, not having to veil things and encrypt posts with passwords and polysyllables.

So to an extent, yes, my writing life is currently at its doldrums because there's not much life to fill space up. There are too many rules, too many social constructs to follow, that I can only blog earnestly about food and music. But is this why people blog? I already know that most readers sneer upon teens who blog self-centredly. Some have become so madly in love with themselves it's like solipsism on steroids, but let's all be thankful that they don't blog. However, it doesn't take a Sigmund Freud to understand the sensitivity of our minds and emotions, and to realise that we too need a form of release and catharsis.

This realisation that things are only a veneer of what they really are, it isn't new but there are aftershocks and new suspicions.

So what is this feeling? I'm neither depressed nor angst-ridden, because I'm a little bothered by the implications that either will bring.

Maybe I'll have to wait for inspiration to take me by the ankles and shake me from some high, towering place.