I'm sitting here, and practically pulling my hair out in frustration.
This is just another in a long string of many many nights where I park myself in front of blank paper, and stare at it. Nothing is coming out. Even my normally fruitful visits to the gym, or the toilet, are for naught--no ideas spring forth in vivid colour, ready to be spilled onto the paper.
I feel the pages are beginning to mock my failure. Taunting me with the blank whiteness, insulting my lack of inspiration. My sketchbooks are full of old ideas, jotted down in a moment of overwhelm in an effort to preserve the concept for a time like this, but even old ideas fail to get my fingers moving.
My poor Copics are gathering dust in a corner, and it hurts my heart.