Without End

I am choking. There are words in me pushing every which way trying to get out but for some reason refuse to be penned. Words that become embodiments of my fear, personifications of every mental obstacle I admit I may have put on myself. It hurts. "KumblaChild" was started with the hopes of making me write everyday. Something, every single day even if it was only a sentence it would be one less inner fight. Since I was a child, though some may argue I still am, I have been writing everyday. I kept journals of my rantings, angst filled and emotionally charged; huge books specifcally made for that purpose guarded with all energy from curious eyes. The important thing is that I wrote.

I have not written anything I think of value in over 8 months. The thought is nagging constantly reminding me of my writing goals, haunting me nightly sitting in wait outside my window.I am starting to panic now. Imagine thinking that as a caribbean writer u will not gain recognition or respect till you're at least 50. That gives me 30 years give or take a few, to fail at this.

I need inspiration to get these stories out. I have heard them but can't tell them. How do you lift a heavy tongue? How do u teach it to pronounce words it has never heard? I have written half stories. Stories of characters coming to life, fighting to be told. They stand just as they are, untold, unread, unwritten...