Writers block
Arthur sits before his typewriter. A place where millions of words and countless thoughts have splurged out of his mind. He has however, been trumped. The gears in his mind requiring to be oiled to turn again. There isn’t frustration in him; he is just waiting for something to come out. Even if it is a drop.
Minutes feel like hours, hours feel like days, days feel like all of existence.
He remains seated in his old worn-out leather chair. The color once having been a lavish regal brown, now faded away by the countless hours he has sat and farted in the chair. the cushioning has morphed from a soft comfortable resting place to a hard rock surface. The arm rests have split apart with foam oozing out from the left side. It might be time to for Arthur to get a new chair.
His mind used to be a bottomless well of ideas. People always complained to him about getting blocked, but he could never relate. Now however, his block has come so severely and suddenly, it’s a car crash at a 1000 miles an hour. The man has become stuck in a jar of thick golden sweet honey. No matter how much he tries to swim up for air, his liquid gold prison keeps him securely in place.
Arthur stares at the white page stuck in his typewriter. He’s been staring at it so long he has memorized the placement of every fiber woven into the dastardly page. He can see the micro tears, the ravines and mountains, the mark of his fingerprints, the discoloration. He can tell you more about this page then he could about his known lineage. The man’s lost in the egg white sauce of his most dangerous opponent. A blank white page.
His finger finally lifts. It lumbers towards the letter “H”. A loud click is heard. The letter “H” has been written on the page. Arthur eagerly waits for something else to come out. Something, it doesn’t have to be much. Just something so he can end this endlessly boring charade of intensely staring at a blank white page. Finally, something does come out. He thanks God for putting the “H” in his mind. Finally, he is free. Writing like a racer on a track. The speed unmatched. The cling clang of the typewriter shaking the very foundations of the world. a smile slowly creeps onto his face. He finishes the first paragraph and jumps right onto the next one. The story is starting to develop. What could it possibly be? so much to write about. Such little time.
He's an agent of chaos. Bombarding the pitiful once empty white page with an assortment of words, phrases, metaphors, idioms, comedy, tragedy, action! Every damn thing he can think about goes onto that lonesome white page.
He finishes. He takes the page out of the typewriter. He intensely reviews it; hoping to find gold. Green algae eyes scanning the page. Like a hawk, preying on every single letter. His hands start to quiver. A volcano is erupting within. It’s apparent he has struck fools gold. Arthur’s mouth opens. He tilts back; an eruption of spit and expletives and tears spews out. The face of the troubled writer is a tomatoey red. The frustration has made his skin flush with blood. He sweats profusely. Every movement no matter how small results in a torrent of salty sweat on his table and typewriter. his grip crumples the innocent papers sides. His anger misplaced. The white paper pleading for its life, but its pleas fall on the deaf ears of a raging monster. He starts to rip the paper in half. He is paper drunk. Arthur shoves the paper in his mouth. Chewing maniacally in an attempt to show dominance to an inanimate object. He spits the paper out. The wetness of his saliva dripping onto his hands. He balls the paper and throws it to a mountain of discarded papers.
This latest aborted paper is just the next poor victim in a long line of victims. If Arthur doesn’t come up with something he enjoys, then he might just end up running out of trees to make paper.