I was writing until it happened. The river of words once flowing dried up in my mind, while ideas and energy seemed to sink into the mud left behind. I tried digging them out, physically doing something to try and unclog whatever blockage cut off my thoughts. They seemed to sink deeper into the muck.

I thought time my help, or maybe a sudden burst of pressure would break the dam and allow the flow to return. Instead, the words that did escape was polluted and rotten. Fraud. Trash. Useless. These slivers of words slipped past the dam with ease, until the once fresh puddles left by the river were tainted too.

All I could do was hope that if - when - the fresh water came, when the words of joy and victory came back to me, that it would wash away the rot, and not take me with it.