The trouble with writing

The trouble with writing for a living is that one can never have writers' block nor have much down time in between. Even when my creative juices have been squeezed dry, and the tip of my pen is as dry as a parched desert, I'm still expected to keep the words flying out like endless rain into a paper cup. To be frank, sometimes, I just don't care anymore. I hate it when I'm forced to write when the muses have abandoned me out of sheer exhaustion, crawling away with the balls of the their elbows out of fear that I drag them kicking and screaming back into another session of pure mental exercise/torture, when all they want to do is to stimulate the finer points of beauty in words. I pity them, just as much as I pity myself, as I'm also in the spot where I'm supposed to ply my trade, my gift of writing in exchange for gold.

I can tell you how my blogs have came and went. How what once was the Hanging Gardens of Babylon, is turned into the damned House of Usher, ever doomed to be haunted by ghosts of one's terror and damned to remain standing neglected maintained forevermore purely on will and not being able to die.

I want to write, and I will write. But yet, despite a hopefully fresh start here, I'm anticipating the inevitable fall of the House of Usher. How's that for an optimistic note for the future? ;)