Empty Unconscious

I am frightened. It's been over a week since I've looked at my finished manuscript, and longer than that since I've written in the unfinished one. Fear stops me, or is it something else? Deep inside I feel the empty hole where once many ideas festered. Now they've vanished - died and gone to heaven where other spirits perhaps enjoy them. Way up there in the sky where all good things go. Perhaps I will have to wait until I'm reborn from the other side. The parallel universe awaits. If only I could string together accurate thoughts in order to make it matter here on the not-so-awesome side. Too many distractions; excuses I create; my muse on hiatus or gone for good. I haven't a clue where to begin, so I come to my five minute gibberish pages where my words don't matter. They don't need an audience or an arena of skeptics and critics who can't wait to devour and dissect what crawls from my brain. Entertaining myself isn't what it once was, but I pray that my fears will work for me, give me the edge necessary to move forward. Make my mark so that I don't feel as if I'm living on the moon where weightlessness doesn't matter. Nothing to tether my spirit except exasperation over words struggling to surface. Where or where has my mentality wandered off? If only I could get it back for one second or perhaps an afternoon.