I know you, thou familiar stranger. A long, long time ago.
When I scribble on the walls of our house with charcoal and on the blackboard of our classroom after school was over.
I knew you for your one minute banging in and out of my head.
Then, you never stayed, yet I learnt to recognize your presence, your play that never climaxes and leaves me hanging.
I learnt to know you.
You were my biting my chalk-stained fingernails.
You were my hitting my head with my sharp, yellow HB pencil.
Quick thrusts, then a hasty exit but I knew.
I knew you before I knew your name.
Over the years, you grew, came closer, spent more time in my head.
An hour, two or three.
You became my fist hitting the table in frustration.
You became my tearing the paper and tossing it behind me.
You became my cancellation.
You became the floor littered with crumpled white papers.
Yet I knew not your name.
You are my laptop filled with abandoned stories.
You are the headache that emerges only when I pick up the pen.
You are the cramps in my brain.
You are why I ignore my writing prompts, why I write no more scripts.
I am now the chairman of the table.
You follow me around, dogging my steps with determination.
I run but you pursue. You stay with me.
Nay, I stay in you.
You are the house, I am the tenant.
I am the caretaker.
And you are… Writer’s Block.
How I hate you.