Can words pour from a page?

I wish I could install a tap into my head and drain out this dullness, like how they bleed syrup from a tree. Just short of actual pain, but so, so very bothersome and disruptive, hampering toward productivity.

It was three years ago when I faceplanted into this madness, wasn't it? Tonight, again comes the desire to freewrite, to--





yet,

I

At this point, what have I...?

One summer in 2013, I read a book called Gemini that broke me out of that spell. I was scared to even touch the book henceforth. Maybe, if I were to open it again, this time it would lead me to dive back, nose in?

I miss my source of passion. I don't want you to only exist as a flicker of warmth at the bottom of a recessed well, available only if I reach, hand pulled through head, innard my self.

Let them push past and through.