See, I swell up with inspiration after experiencing something truly meaningful, and then right before I get in front of my computer screen all of it bursts out of me as if I were a tick engorged on someone else's blood. A small little wave of creativity rushes out and I am left empty and dry in front of this white screen. It stares at me with blank eyes, as if asking me what I had intended to do with it. I never have a very good answer, really. Sometimes I'll shrug and say to it "write", but then it responds with "write what?".
<br>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; I sat down here with the intention of writing a short story, or at the most a novella. Not for any greater gain beyond writing as a means of free entertainment. "Let's set the brain loose on the keyboard and see what marvelous things spring forth!" was the thought process behind the whole thing. But, now that I sit here and rack my brain for any bit of creative genius that all would-be authors or artists or musicians believe that they have lurking inside of them I find nothing but an empty room, and an angry looking word-processor staring me down.
<br>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; "Fuck it!" I say to the screen, and storm off in search of something else to occupy my time with, fuming with anger. I always come back to it, though I know that I have nothing worth writing down. The keys draw me towards them with their promise of potential things, but I find that I have nothing to offer them in return for that potential. They stare up at me, gleaming and ready; I stare down at them, empty handed.

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