I Live On The Writers Block

If you found a map of Writers Block, you'd find that its outside of town, right on the border between the suburbs and the country. You know where I mean, that nice paved road that bends to the right, but only sort of ... you could still go straight on to Writers Block, but its on a dirt road. Most people don't want to drive on a dirt road, so I am stuck there.

The little cottage has yellow walls, a dirty white carpet, and a few couches. It hasn't been cleaned in years. Ironically, it hasn't been cleaned since I last wrote a song that I felt was any good. Yeah, in this cottage I write my songs. I don't play guitar here, thats somewhere off the ground. Sometimes its more grounded, like in the rickety tree house out back, and sometimes its way up there on that mountain, where everyone can hear me but noone can actually see me. 

I really, really want to clean this place up. Its a mess. Full of oddball memories, like this duck pillow, an old lawn tractor, and strangely enough, a laundry center with a dent on the corner. (its blue, if you must know.) There's a St. Patrick's Day shirt in the corner, but I don't dare pick it up because thats where my cats used to pee. Every once in a while I look at that birthday card slash coloring book page that my sister once made for me and I smile. But then I remember that time, and I think about how I used to sit in this room alone, staring blankly out the window, saying nothing, phone unhooked from the wall.

Do I have any reason to continue writing music here? I mean, I'm still a strong young man, I don't need this cottage anymore. Cell phones have made staying disconnected rather pointless. Unless you leave it in the car. Why would I leave it in the car? 

I guess it doesn't ring much anyway.

So I walk into the kitchen and there are dishes there, white Corelle dishes with a green design ringing around them. The floor still has that shiny brown hue with the odd design. The walls have a velvety texture to them, a reddish color. Reminds me of a house I used to have nightmares about as a child.

Anyway, a redesign?

Maybe I should do as every artist does (or should) and throw out everything he knew/knows and start again. Light a match, end this cottage's existance. 

I think I'll do that.

The duck pillow isn't important anymore anyway.