A block is like a wall, a cliff, ridiculing me in its pristine and unnaturally smooth and straight lines. It taunts me, calling me a hammer without a point, a grapple without a hook, one of the faithful without a prayer. But I know better. My mind is like a still lake, a serene pool, but it is also like a raging river, a staggering falls, an unending tide, and with its strength I can batter and smash any obstacle in my way. Or, should it prove insidious, slyly extend my tendrils and seep through the cracks and earth, to rip away all the ground it has to stand on.
I am a writer, and my mind is as deft as a dancer, as cunning as a fox, and as sharp and deadly as a knife in the dark.
Blocks? They litter my life like a sea of defeated foes.