On Writing (How I feel)

About a month ago I was very frustrated with writing. I wanted to write, but I just couldn't get the words right. So I decided to write a little short, see if that helped.

In the beginning, it’s like darkness. Not the absolute that blinds, but a soft black which glows. And it terrifies me. In total darkness I might stumble blindly, groping, hoping my fingers touch something. But in this soft light I can see there is nothing. Then I see a strand, thin as violin string, but tall as a tree, and I reach out to grasp it. Now I have my hands around it, I know I am not falling, or moving.
As I hold it, it stirs, slightly, and high above my head, or maybe deep beneath my feet, I hear music. Faint and simple, but now I know I am not deaf. Two more are within reach, then three. Soon they stroke my arms, caress my cheeks, and sooth my fears with their complex melody, this forest of taught strings. I am no longer floating, I am connected. When I am tired I stop clambering and rest, as if in a hammock.
I awake and go deeper, and the forest of string thickens, and I begin to struggle. I am bound. I move one leg forward and I feel them tighten, before slowly slipping through, into the grasp of new, eager, threads. Sometimes the melody becomes harsh and bitter, but I have to move forward. My passage has twisted everything behind me into thick ropes and crisscrossing nets. So I move forward, sometimes happy to play the sweet melody, other times wishing only to cut myself free…but I can’t.
I think back to my beginning, floating, free and unconnected, and then I carry on. Soon I’ll be out, and freedom will turn to fear, just as a stable rope became a binding chord. But for a few moments I find the right strings, and the resulting melody soothes and calms me, for a time.