Writer's Block.

Some days, I just sit there, still as ever. The PC hums a favourite tune, the writer I’m reading says something astounding but only half-understood. The violin sways—sober and melodious—in the background. Something inside me stirs, writhing to get out. But something is off with the universe. Not enough of the right elements in the right place. Everything inside me hums. I’m snappy and picky—very picky about what I listen to, what I read. I can feel myself trying to set the cosmos right. Trying to push planets into place, balancing the stars, whisking the clouds to and fro. I know as I sit there, favourite pen in hand, tapping the page incessantly... I know that when two days or two months later something will click, and I’ll go thrashing through my room for a pencil and notebook—the result will be much better. But the feeling is still uncomfortable. It’s like hiking as the air gets thinner. It’s like chewing your lip, staring down a question you knew but don’t remember. It’s also called...