I desire to write new words down;

to see something that flows left to right across this smudged screen.

I'm trying to get past writer's block, but find myself running straight into brick wall after brick wall after brick wall.

I'm looking for a door to walk through; to escape where I am; to step out of the storm.

I want to clutch the doorknob, twist, and push my way through to the promised land other side, but this brick wall doesn't have a door.

Or a window.

I feel enclosed; blind to the outside – stuck alone on the inside.

Hope seems far, while weariness and frustration grow quick like weeds.

Maybe I should close my computer and walk away.

Or sit on the couch within eyesight and read a book.

Or watch Back To The Future II on Netflix.

But I think I'll save that for tonight.

Coffee always helps,

but these teeth are moving further from ideal pearly whites.

Giving up isn't an option.

I'll get past this brick wall, i’ll make it to the other side.

Maybe I'll grab a ladder or a shovel

But I want to work to get to the other side.

I want the hammer.

A big hammer.

A hammer that needs two hands.

Not Thor's, but my own.

Rage and frustration will propel me to pound straight into the brick wall.

Vibrations will shake these arms, but I will not be stopped.

I will chip, crack, and break that wall,
but I will not chip, crack, or break at all.

Shock will meet sweat, but I will not stop.

I'll shatter the bricks to see to the other side.

I'll close my eyes and grit my teeth and wipe my brow.

I'll grip tight and rip my skin and I won't get woozy when the blood mixes with the dirt.

I'll curse and spit and ask for forgiveness and repeat.

I'll ignore the lies inside my mind that tell me to go lay down inside.

I'll wave off the pain in my back.

I'm moving forward.

The wrinkles are growing deep around my eyes with every hit, every wince.

And maybe I should give up.

Maybe I should have just climbed the wall.

And maybe the hammer isn't my tool of choice.

It isn't.

I prefer the spork.

You know, the spoon shaped utensil with tines at the tip to scoop and stab.

But I will not give up.

I will knock this brick wall down.

I will see the other side.

And I will write something that matters.

The screen will hold new words and

these words will act like a hammer in these calloused hands.

These words will tear down the brick walls within the mind of the writer and reader.

I will write something that someone, somewhere can relate to.



And Somewhere someone will see this isn't about writer’s block.

Somewhere someone will nod their head and see though the brick wall.

They'll see this brick wall isn't really a brick wall, but it is fear.

It is uncertainty.

It is depression.

It is the questions that swarm.

It is wondering if I am taking steps in the right direction or if I am just taking steps.

It is a crossroads, a tossing and turning all night, an unshakeable thought.

It is regret and anxiety and waking to another Monday that should be Saturday or at the earliest Sunday.

It is the constant battle between love and pain and I'm growing weary from fighting.

They'll see the hammer as tears.

Or confession.

Or prayer.

Or another cup of coffee.

Or an honest conversation.

Or a hug that lasts too long, but not long enough.

They'll see through the line about a spork as a poor attempt to distract from speaking openly.

From saying what needs to be said.

The shifting of the rudder to steer the conversation off course so you'll stop looking at me as a crazy person.

I'm not a crazy person.

And they'll know this wasn't about writer's block.


But this is about living.
This is about continuing.

This is about waking up and saying okay.

Saying i'm okay.

Saying we're okay.

Saying it's going to be okay.

Even when there is a brick wall.

Even when it's Monday.

Even when fear.

And depression.

And regret.

Tell you it isn't going to be okay,
it will be okay.

Every day.

I'm okay.

We're okay.

It's going to be okay.

Welcome to the other side.

Tanner Olson