Fight fire with fire

For the last 5-6 years or so I had the most intense writer's block known to me, writing throughout some works I thought were rather splendid. Yet nothing from my past writings could fit any specific body of work, little fiendish children running through my mind, waiting to be expelled into bits and bytes.

The deed of writing short and concise beings is more of an act of terror or an elaborate abortion than the essence of the creator in my writings. Symbolically I see what is known as the Creator of Life in every action I do manage to see through to the end.

Bursts, like bubbles, like smoke, unlike the sky or the moon, which are withstanding forces quite akin to what I hope to become through writing or creating. Am I just looking for satisfaction in the form of feedback or feeding a deeper desire I feel running through every active life form. All beings alive connected in a micro-network made out of molecules and neutrons. A voice in my mind, other than my own?