The Blinking Cursor

I wish I didn’t get a freeze in front of a blank page, blinking cursor, just blinking at me, like desperately wanting attention that I somehow cannot manage to give it.  It blinks, methodically and systematically, as if every time it disappears and reappears the gods of lexicon detangle my ideas and create the masterpiece that I envision, frozen in a corner of my mind called imagination.

Sometimes, I wonder if the blinking cursor is just a warning sign that the vocabulary knights refuse to wander into my mind.

I was taught in a dream, that the vocabulary knights are the right hand of the gods of lexicon, and they wander into unknown territory, searching for the next story waiting to come out of its shell, to transfer it into the fingers of authors so that the story may be written as intended.

I wonder if my mind is disorganized enough to scare away the knights.  But if I have such wonderful stories to tell, why is it that the gods of lexicon ignore my imagination?  Is it that small?  Is it not worth it?

And as I come back from my plight, I stare at the blinking cursor, as it stares back at me inpatiently.