Writer's block

I have that painful stare-at-the-blank-page-can’t-think-of-anything-good-to-write illness. It’s torturing me.
I have all these thoughts in my head, so many in fact that they are swimming circles around each other. Racing and competing and drowning each other in a competition so fierce none come out on top and the page in front of me remains blank.

One thought rings loudest in my mind, but whispers words so fragile they disappear as soon as I write them down.

What do you do when the one thing you want to write about won’t jump out of your head, crawl down your arm, ignite in your fingertips and tattoo themselves on a page in front of you? What then? How do you make the one idea you have an actuality when you know it’s the one idea that isn’t any good? ‘No one will want to read this’ I keep thinking, ‘that is not a good story.’ Yet it remains, the only idea stronger than all the rest, the only spark of inspiration setting a fire in my mind.
Yet the words are stuck, trapped inside me. They pulse in my brain and leak through the membrane to my blood, flowing through my small body and into my heart where they beat within me like a life force, mocking me, taunting me with their fickle presence. The one thing I want to write won’t come out and nothing else survives.

How do poets find inspiration so willing to be tamed? How do authors write plots so eager to unfold? How do musicians make melodies wanting to be heard? When I can’t write a story because it doesn’t want to be told. It wants to be lived. And life is not an option.

I have that painful illness, that teasing trick, that contemptuous feeling.
I have writer’s block.