Long time, also very stuck

I can't write any fucking poems because I am too far away from everything outside myself, and the time it takes for something from outside to get to the inside is so long that by the time something trickles down for me to react to it's hardly worth it. Little world-fragments make their slow way into the small white room where I sit and then what? I just stare at them. What am I supposed to do with these?
The opposite of abundance, but also not a lack, since I've engineered myself never to experience lack.