It's almost physical, the pain of writer's block. Trying to push through it. It's like ripping through scar tissue. You know that it shouldn't be there, you know it can only do harm to you in the long run. At the same time you know it needs to be taken out, removed, destroyed. Sometimes the only way to do it is to rip it out. It always makes a mess, and usually isn't terribly good at first. It tears at you, makes you writhe under the force it takes to remove it. However, unlike scar tissue, there is nothing you can take to dull the pain of ripping a new hole in your soul. It's a fresh wound, something new to speak from as the old one had dried up, hardened. You grimace as the first few lines of whatever dribble out. You know it's not up to standard, there's something slightly off about whatever it is you're writing about. You're never sure what but it's shaky or delicate, like if you look at it wrong, those lines will shatter. You're careful. It's a precious few lines of something new, something you've been craving to have for weeks now. It can't be likened to child birth. No, it's not quite as natural as that. Whereas the body is created to give birth and make way for new life, the soul is always hesitant to be exposed. The soul shies away from the rest of the world, hoping that it won't be embarrassed. Praying that it can withstand the pressures it is under. Wishing that it didn't have to live forever and bear the earth shattering conclusions it has come to in its owner's short life time. No, ripping holes to bear the soul cannot be natural. It is why there are so few writers in the world, so few artists. They've all suffered for their work. Perhaps it isn't so far off that writer's block is in fact a physical affliction. Or maybe, the affliction is the cure.