Why Is Writing Such a Struggle?

A poem in prose

I don’t know when it became this way, the words used to flow like a river of thoughts running from my brain through my fingers to the page. But lately I’ve found it hard to put pen to paper, to open my mind and let my thoughts pour out like steam from a kettle. The fuse it lit, the kettle is set, but the water is not boiling.

It is possible that everything going on in the world right now, the struggles we’re facing and the terrible wars that are raging, are contributing to a state of unableness, of instability in my own head, my brain hardening from the outside in, it’s been mummified. And the thoughts and ideas and inspirations have been preserved, but the ability to use them has not.

When did it get this way? That my fingers rest upon the keys but the words do not come. That I type and type and type and type and type but to nothing more than a string of half words and broken sentences that do not flow.

The magic is gone. They say it’s possible to get it back. That like a muscle it must be exercised or it loses its ability to function. But why should my words matter? Why should my voice be amplified? Because I care?

How do you write when it feels like everything you have to say has already been said? And it’s already been said by someone who can say it better. Can say it smarter. Can say it gooder.

At that point, why talk at all?