This is not writer’s block, nor was it ever. I am not a clogged up pipe in the drainage system that is simply backed up with too much garbage to bring forth the gush of words. And I am not a large swirling body of water limited by a dam. My problem is not one of dead ends; they are such obvious obstacles. I am held back by something more subtle, and perhaps stronger. My whole body is stiff-petrified and unmoving — nothing seems to move me anymore. I used to be some violent force that could stir my own seas, but lately I have been only a long-forgotten medical marvel stored floating in a jar of stagnant liquid. Everything is still, and I have to learn how to make art from stillness if I would ever like to move again.