I know, you thought you were rid of me. That amuses me. Puts a delectable smirk on my face. Because you never truly will be free, no matter how hard you try to believe it. Freedom is an illusion. I am always lurking in the shadows. I take great pride in appearing at the worst possible moments. There is no lovelier sound than your cries of frustration; no greater sight than your battered soul, weary from all your measly attempts at perseverance.
Yes, you know me well, though you wish we'd never met. You strive for the ability to do away with me forever. At times you cling to the juvenile belief that it is possible, and you allow yourself to be convinced that you have succeeded. But you know, deep down inside you, that I am always ready to hunt you down. I won't let you go free.
I am a plague, a disease, a famine, and I revel in the torture I bring. There may be times when you find temporary release, a manoeuvre to prevent me from reaching you. No matter. Another victim is always close at hand. I will bide my time. But I will find my way back to you. Always.
Dread my coming.
For I am Writer's Block, and yes, I shall come.