I sit down to write.
But my head is heavy.
I think of the words I could put down on paper.
But there are too many nos in my head.
I think of the trips I have done.
But I feel like nothing is good enough to write about.
I think that perhaps I should just try.
But if it’s good it’s going to end up bad anyway.
There’s nothing I can write that will make the water in the river flow again.
But on the bus back home I realise that at this point
the only thing worth writing about is the writer’s block.