Black ink meets white paper but the words won’t flow. I stare at the page in front of me. My hands, frozen. I can’t write, I can’t think, I can’t see. My mind becomes the white of the page. A white noise, a white world, and a white taste that lingers on the tip of my tongue threatening to sweep me away in a wave of white. The words stumble and trip out of my mind, broken and messy, spilling out onto the page in fractured sentences and incoherent thoughts. The once neat lines of script turn into a sloppy storm of black characters, marching their way to madness across the page and through my head. The white walls of the page crush down on me and the words fall lifeless at my fingertips as the sentences fail to form properly and my mind runs thick like syrup.
I sink further and further into the sickly, sweetness of nostalgia and I stop fighting the oncoming waves, instead facing them with open arms and letting them whisk me further out to sea, and as I give up desperately fishing for the next verse, the letters swim into words and sentences and paragraphs and when I look up from my daze the once blank paper in front of me is now filled with ink dancing and winding its way around the whiteness. A weight lifts and the white walls retreat, leaving only the thoughts that now flow in a steady stream from my fingertips. Black ink once again meets white paper but this time I do not stutter, instead I write.