Paradoxical Renditionings of Nothing

A Paradox is a fascinating thing. Of course, so are a lot of other things involved with literature and the universe and everything, but I'm not going to write about any of them at the moment.

Well, maybe one.

There are many occasions where I have a great urge to write and imaginate something(imaginate is a word which means imagine then create), but find that I simply cannot bring my mind to writing mode. This is actually a situation that I have always found rather fascinating, because I bring my mind pretty much everywhere with me, and my mind never puts up any bit of a fuss--although somedays fatigue will try and speak lies to my poor brain--but for some reason my mind will choose to put its foot down on random--but fruequent--occasions when I wish to write. It is on these occasions and at these moments when I usually choose to begin writing about writer's block. This quite often solves the problem, but never fails to leave me feeling quite paradoxical.

It is in this paradoxical state which you, dear reader, have unfortunately found me. I say unfortunately because my original intention was to divert myself from the paradoxical state of mind by writing about paradoxes, but find myself stuck in a paradoxical circle as I have been explaining the paradox of writers writing about writer's block, which in itself is a paradox because I was writing about writer's writing about writer's block, and if I go into depth with this topic I will be writing about how I was writing about writers writing about writer's block, and so forth.

I believe at this point what is supposed to happen if i don't stop writing right at this second, is that the world or the sun will blow up--I forget which. Either way I'm still writing, you're still reading, and I'm quite certain we both have a considerable headache by now. I know I do.

This isn't really the note I'd like to end on, but because of the throbbing in my head I'm afraid it will have to be.