Occasionally one actually comes across an excellent writer in Qassia, and such is the case with yours truly. Huh? Okay, let's go over that again. Yours truly came across an excellent writer on Qassia recently. Well, actually, today. Just a little while ago. This is what I read by freelance writer Jason Cangialosi. It strikes a chord (if you have ever been at a loss for --- a loss for, uh . . . well, if you have been at a loss, okay?)

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A Mind's Journey Through Writer's Block

Thoughts pummel the mind like falling bricks without the words, like mortar, to bind them. A head full of nonsense and knowledge trying to conjure wisdom, as if cooking an omelet with eggs and sugar. Fingers abandon the keys kneeling before the glare of the blank page, finding their way to a game of solitary cards. The numbers are bliss, the royal faces friendly and successive completion of each row monumentally satisfying. Yet, winning is always a defeat when the game is a distraction or excuse from the need to create.

Perhaps not knowing what the essence of this mountain of thoughts is, fosters a failed attempt to write. That is why the keys hammer furiously in understanding a game of solitaire. This wandering mind is tempted to use the metaphor of solitaire for the life of writing and creating. It's too obvious though and will only stir the voice of doubt that loves to blow wet raspberries at the words on screen.

Damn this endless circus of thoughts with no ringleader; meager emotions to be tossed as scraps to the ravenous lions of doubt. The lions are the voice of doubt, blowing their raspberries, roaring a sleepy yawn, saying 'you're worthless, come rest your blood and guts in our belly.' Their chorus of yawns and growls is at times deafening with a spray of spit as they breathe down my neck. The only whip to tame these lions is the coffee in hand; each sip a crack of the whip to keep them on their perches. Doubt is a ferocious beast, and it will run wild in packs, preying on vulnerabilities that bleed.

So here in these words hides bleeding scars with a scent that is fresh on the tongues of lions. The ringleader is nowhere to be found; probably drunk and drugged in a collapsed tent on muddied ground. Taming lions is no use when the ringleader soaks the mud with his tears of a fate gambled and lost. Let loose the lions, so they may feast on a bloody decoy tossed into the corner. With their backs turned, navigate the animalistic chaos of this mental circus. Dodge the swinging trunks of elephants who never forget and the flying feces of monkey's trying to mount my back.

Emerge into fields to breathe and run, then stowaway my worries on ships that cross oceans of fear. All one can do is seek new horizons with tribal instincts returned, like a hunter who will seek and destroy the lions' roar of doubt. Here, I abandon the crunching sound of peanut shells while wandering the mental circus tent. Abandoned in faith that now only the sound of sipping tea in a safari tent will interfere with whispers from towering blades of grass.

The lions here are tamed by wild forces, their bellies full and bodies rested. It is here that the mortar of words will dress upon bricks; where tents once vulnerable to the doubtful claws of lions are now impenetrable.

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