Manipulation Block

The one thing every writer must face sooner or later hit me in the face like a wave and left me staring at the blinking black line.

WRITER’S BLOCK.

I wondered how I would construct a simple idea into the page without rambling. I wondered, “What the hell am I doing?” I also wondered, “Why the hell didn’t Gravity win Best Picture?” With the blinking black line, the passing minutes and my brain going a mile a minute I slammed my computer screen down and took a drive.

I didn’t know where I was going or why. I didn’t know what I was going to buy or even if I needed to buy anything. I decided at the stoplight that a soda was the best bet; I was thirsty and only had three dollars on me.

The nearest gas station in on the only intersection that literally everyone was on today. As I stopped (for the fourth time!) I saw someone walking on the median. My first thought was that someone got out of their car and walked to the destination they desired. But, as he got closer I noticed he didn’t have a car. He didn’t have much of anything except a piece of cardboard with “Help me I’m poor” written on it.

He walked past my car, looked in the window and walked away. He looked homeless, his pants had stains on them, his shirt was ripped and he walked with a limp that seemed almost too real. As the light turned green I wondered if this was just an act, a front to get people to feel sorry for him.

Are fronts the new form of manipulation? I know this sounds bad, but I couldn’t believe him. He looked fine other than his clothes. How do I-we- know he just didn’t rip them? That he’s just using this act as a way to get free money?

People are, in nature, the best manipulators. Manipulating everything and everyone to get what they want or need. As I thought about this my mind got to thinking about relationships. When a friend finally meets that special someone they change who they really were for this person.

One friend actually started baking when we all knew she was a horrible cook. Another became a self-made scholar when all she really wanted to do was self-make drinks. I wondered if we can’t truly be ourselves then who are we really?

When I got home, with my seventy-nine cent cola, I got through my writers block.