A Creative Droubt

Rain all day, as if flung at the windows of the call centre. No distance anywhere, just a void where the horizons used to be.
Cold rain too, the wet on my skin strangely reminds me I have bones buried there.

(in the earth, those drifting churchyard summer days, and the ghost-tides through the trees by the railway line
i never heard a train there)

There seems to be no inspiration these days for anything creative or artistic. Another void. Frustration wells up here. I get my sketchbook out when I get back home from work and feel like never picking up a paintbrush or pen again. I doodle at work. Cramped things I throw away at the end of the day. I haven't taken my guitar out of its case for months. Not since the summer. The thought of loading up my word processor overwhelms me with an almost narcotic lethargy.
A terminal indolence.

There is always that fear though, and we've all had it; what if this is it, what if this is it forever?
Do creative blocks last forever though? Can they? In the middle of this one here it feels they can, and do, but I would say that wouldn't I?
Everything passes. Everything turns to dust.
Even the blocks that house this creative drought.

My god, its quiet outside tonight.

(i remember those last weeks of summer, walking to work in the bright novelty of mornings, hot already, feeling as if someone was flinging down buckets of summer onto the pavements)