Why isn’t it easy to sometimes come up with some writing ideas?

I’m not sure. It’s like I need to get a shovel out and start digging the ground beneath me and sift through those solid layers in order to find that treasure that’s hidden beneath. What treasure?

Well, isn’t this charming? What treasure indeed.

It all boils down to wanting to write something that may be of interest to someone, anyone that may chance my entry and spare 5 minutes of their time and their life, to read this entry of nothing. Oh My God. The arrogance of it astounds me. Really?

Why would it matter if someone read my entry or not? And this is what it comes down to, this is the crux of it all. To be read and acknowledged that my words on this screen haven’t gone unnoticed and that I too can be read, just like everyone else.

I ponder on this idea of writing ideas and I think that perhaps my frustration may resonate with everyone else too. At this moment I am living a dismal moment of uninspired nothingness, as if my mind there is a swirling like those worm holes that supposedly lurk in space.

No one is immune. No one that writes as often as they can proclaim can say that they’ve not experienced this before. So Where to from here? Has this method of extrapolating my inner depths of nothingness actually found that treasure to write about something?

Nope. Not yet. But it is in there somewhere, and by golly if it doesn’t surface now, it will surface later. Indeed it will. Isn’t it just like that with everything else?

Listen. What’s that? Oh… It’s just the dirt that’s landed on the ground from that shovel.