Writing When You Don’t Feel Like Writing

I sat down to write my best prose but I felt stuck like hair in the drain of the shower. The shower is where I do some of my best writing. But sometimes, I do not have the stomach to reach into those swirling depths and pull at the stubborn stands that cling and clog the flow of water. So instead, I distracted myself in the kitchen. I became immersed in courgettes on a chopping board. I watched wistfully as water simmered and boiled on the stove. I sprinkled sea sat and stirred with the long handle of a spoon. I melted frozen sundries in a pan and doused it with sweet, sticky sauce. I wish I could describe the aromas. 
 
But I could not write even a fragment of the sensations digesting inside me. Even after voyages to the couch and eating on the couch and gazing out the window from the couch. The rain had just started and I needed newness. I walked around the block, not once but twice. After I returned to the apartment, I shook the sky-water from the fabric of my jacket into tiny droplets on the linoleum. 
 
I have been trying to challenge myself: write more, write today, write again tomorrow. Be persistent. Make attempts, however awkward, however clumsy. 
 
Like last night, I went for a walk to the park. There were skateboarders akimbo and seagulls squawking in the sky. One of the birds was more eager than the rest. It was feasting in a way that others wouldn’t. It was eating the body of a dead pigeon. Decimating it with sharp peaks of its beak. Pulling feathers from flesh then losing its grip and doing it all over again. I was fascinated and confused and less disgusted than I thought I would be. My mind however, was working frantically to find some sort of meaning. But there is no deeper substance than life feeding on life. My vegan past had sanitized against the barbarous beauty of the animal world. I was a witness to life and death. I felt torn, unwilling to watch but unwilling to look away. 
 
My walk was otherwise unremarkable. Or perhaps there were many moments that I could not remember or did not notice. Like the way the pigeon become an offering to sustain another. I do not believe the gull was the predator but an opportunist. It was more likely a car that crushed its body. Did the driver stop? Did they notice? Does it matter? If it did, would anything have changed?
 
I believe there is a gift to be found here. Never have I ever thought about the decayed and dying parts of myself. I am so focused my own preservation that I forget to let things decompose. 
I do not know if this makes any sense. I did not chase the gull away. But it felt like I had moved closer to unclogging my drain.

The next day, I borrowed my girlfriend’s hoodie. Then I was quiet chats for chocolate at the corner store. I was on the waterfront when the sun moved behind the hills. People were taking pictures with phones pointed at the sky, the water, the reflections of the sky in the water. I was no different, with my notebook in my hand, trying to encircle something of the moment. Trying to relive a memory of beauty or encase it in a slew of my best prose. 
 
I thought to myself. It’s nice that the borders are open again and the word on the street is more than just English. I like not being able to understand every sentence and slogan and cutting jibe but some catch me in earshot, “It’s weird having a king though, bro.”
 
Then I was walking again and I wanted the sun to set over and over again. Tomorrow seemed so very far away.

I saw a seagull rising and falling with half-moon movements. It arced and circled on the invisible winds. Then it dived, dived. And with a few flaps of its wings, it slowed and skimmed across the surface of the water. 
 
The light faded then it was gone. I was still watching the birds.