Today, I think my brain burned out, and totally melted to protodermis. Unrefined, half-solid half-fluid silvery liquid of Bionicle life.

It was in the middle of a review I had to do. Note: had to. It was no 'must', but I had to stand in defence for my fellow critics when a member 'demanded' about the review that was not done.

We don't ask for good clients. We ask for ALL clients.

And so I was reviewing the work, re-reading the epic to check again and again to see if my points were valid (or else someone would throttle me at the throat), when I hit a dead end.

All typing stopped. Everything went to a screeching halt.

What was I thinking?

Has it ever occured to you, ever just once, when you are neck-deep in something or totally submerged in it, going at full speed and overdrive, and all too suddenly the world beneath you gives way?

You keep falling, falling into a state of void, where there is nothing in your head at all?

My friends, I think that would be what everyone would call 'a block'. No matter an 'artist block', 'writer block', 'theorist block', even 'work block' or 'homework block', but technically in all matters, it is something that blocks the input, or the percolation.

I had it today. I remember reading an article in a magazine at the morbidly mundane clinic I followed my grandmother to today, of a writer who went to the Writer's Cage, or so she called it.

Its real identity is the Writer's Cavern, or Writer's Cove, I could not recall. But it was for writers. Shelled up in there without a real means of communication to the world, laptop at hand, in a little cottage surrounded by wilderness.

Now, I'll be honest, it sounded like a paradise to me. What's more, it was for free! Imagine that! A paradise for free! I could take my pad and pencil and trek to the waterfall and sit there, watching the water and, like the water, let my mind flow. May it be cleansing my thoughts and reminders of a harrowing and hurried world, or replenishing and refreshing my mind with ideas, tricks of the pen or a story of peace...

Imagine that.

But imagine being stuck for nearly half your timed duration there with a writer's block. That was what the author of the article went through. I downright pitied her. A week's worth of writer's block has never hit me before, but short periods of that aforementioned interest-illness has got to me before.

But, after a good lot of romping around the turf of the cottage and taking breaks by the nearby beach, she slowly regained her ground and worked about halfway through her novel.

Well, if that was some sort of inspiration, or help, how was it going to drag my aft out of this mental block?

I read two other epics that were in line. I being the boss of myself, had some luxuries I have not exploited. Linear fashion aside, I cleared two more, and returned to the offending post.

Still nothing.

I played some instrumental music, namely from Enya and Secret Garden, and re-tackled the review.

The second try ended at moot point.

That was it.

There was one other luxury self-bosses have for themselves.

I deleted all the text I wrote for that review, and shut down the laptop.

Now, am I a genius?