They say writer’s block comes and goes. Like bad weather, or that neighbor who borrows but never returns.

But what if it doesn’t?

What if it decides to stretch out on the couch, shoes off, and make itself comfortable inside our head?

The thought is unsettling. After all, writing is what we do, what we claim, sometimes even what we build our sense of self around. To imagine the words drying up forever feels like being a singer who suddenly forgets how to hum.

Still… maybe it wouldn’t be the end.

Maybe we’d learn to live with the silence. To listen closely to the words that swirl in our minds, even if they never make it onto paper. Maybe we’d hold conversations with our unwritten sentences, carry them like secrets, half-dreams we never quite wake from.

Who knows? Maybe we were meant to be dreamers all along. Not every word has to live on a page. Some can just linger in us, unpolished, half-funny, a little tragic, but still ours.

And if the block never leaves? Well, at least it will never run out of excuses for us.

It is funny that we could be friends with it, while we are hating on it, we could be depending on it, sharing inner jokes and still hoping the attachment dies sooner than later.

But if it never goes away, then perhaps we will simply learn to live in its shadow, still reaching for the words, still carrying them in our stride.