Blocked up.

Writers block is a strange condition.

When you start up, and the creative juices are flowing, and it looks like you are sitting on huge resources of creativity, you feel like the Master of your destiny and immortal.

But when you live your life, depending on that perfect burst of creativity, at exactly the right time, one tries not to think about the day when you reach into the hat and instead of a Rabbit your hand comes out empty.

This is the moment that all magicians fear most.

The way that all men fear the day that their junk will fail them at a crucial time.

This is a little like that.

Writers block is like sitting on the crapper, and... Nothing.

Like clearing your desk for a mighty sneeze, tissue in hand and.. Nothing.

Its dreams unfulfilled and expectations dashed.

Its disappointment of the worse kind.

Yet, if you have done this as long as I have, one knows not to push, or squeeze, or make faces, or show desperation, or cry or try or any of the things that you feel like doing.

Just go on, with your day and it will come. Like Magneto after he lost his powers. Go about your pitiful life as a muggle, and if it returns, then "yay" , and if it doesn't, then live your lived life like everyone else.

Like the millions out there, who don't know what it's like to have magic, in their fingers.

But you can't do that, can you?

Once you see through the illusion, like Neo in the matrix the illusion of normalcy doesn't work anymore.

You can't see through the magicians trick and still fall for the illusion.

So you wait.

You eat, you sleep, and you wait.

And mostly it comes back in a flood, and you are all best pals and life is beautiful.

Yet now you know what it's like, living without the magic.
And it terrifies you.

And every waking moment is spent dreading the moment when your hand comes out the hat.
Sans rabbit.