In Need of a Mental Laxative

I used to not believe in that phenomenon widely known as "writer's block"--or as my friend Prometheus (whose posts I sorely miss) termed it, "blogstipation." But now I do.

Well, not exactly.

The problem isn't having nothing to write about. There's a plethora of topics, what with these myriad ideas swirling about in the cesspool that attempts to pass itself off as my mind. But somehow, for some reason, I can't seem to pin down these thoughts accurately enough--or long enough--to form coherent words about them. It's like there's something blocking the path from mind to fingertips that my thoughts traverse before I'm able to write about them or type them. Therein lies the problem.

So these fingers find themselves either idle or twitching almost spasmodically (like right now) in an effort to capture those thoughts--and failing dismally. What comes out is just a shadow of what wants to be written, a ghost, a pale and poor imitation. The meat of what I want to say is there, yet it isn't. I feel like a dog trying to bite its own tail: spinning round and round, looking ludicrous in its attempt to capture what's supposed to be within easy reach. Sometimes, though, it succeeds. Who knows how the dog feels then? Who cares? Well, the dog does, at least.

I hope this dog catches her tail tale soon. Every dog has its day. (I just couldn't resist that last one, haha!)

Maybe I need to start sleeping less again.
(Addendum: I've been an insomniac many, many years now. I usually work from late at night to very early in the morning. Sleep for a few hours, then do what I have to do for the day. Recently, though, there have been some nights that have found me lost in snoozeland during normal sleeping hours--and for longer hours than the four or five to which I've become accustomed. It has screwed up my ability to write somehow; hence, my consideration of the idea of sleeping less again.)