The words are taken..

One glance at the numerous stories that people have published, and there is a familiar pang of having nothing to write.

A fear, of slithering into irrelevance amongst the vast archives of words. For it seems, that every idea I can conceive, is already expressed. Every word that I write seems stolen, every sentence familiar to some other pen-wielder. For what I may know, someone somewhere in the world may be writing about this very same topic.

Everything there is to be written about, may already have been written. The differences lie in the variations of our ways of expressions; subtleties that define us.

I could find every facet of my own story, attributed to someone who unknowingly delved into my realm. I can string together my story from the bits and pieces of theirs. The solace I can give myself is that I would've done it differently.

Not always does a writer have a plethora of things to write about. There are times, when it is all blank, and the thoughts seem stuck in a blockade. Perhaps the only thing that I can write about at such a time, is how I cannot write anything. But even that has been taken!