The screen stared at him, a blank void, taunting him. The only visible sign of life was a single blinking cursor, waiting for his command.
He had no commands.
He knew he needed to write. He knew what he wanted to write in a vague, foggy way – yet every day he sat down at his keyboard, staring at the screen in front of him, and typed nothing. Three weeks now and not a single word could be counted.
Groaning in frustration he rose from the chair, hoping that some movement of his body might spark movement in his mind. He paced back and forth, wondering once again if his common trek across this small patch of ground was wearing a trail in the carpet. He had seen no signs yet.
On one of his rotations he stopped at the wall, standing so close his nose could almost touch the paint. Its whiteness mocked him, an enlargement of the white screen behind him waiting for his words.
This wall was a tangible manifestation of the wall in his own mind, keeping his thoughts from flowing forth. How to overcome this obstacle?
He placed both of his hands against the wall, pressing against it. Softly at first, then gradually increasing in strength until he could push no more.
The wall did not move.
In exasperation he slammed his head against the wall, as hard as he could. As his head pulled back, he saw the force of the blow had formed a dent in the wall.
He bashed his head again, and again. The dent grew slightly larger, but progress was slow.
Then, a new occurrence, a bright red stain against the whiteness of the wall. Woozy, he felt his forehead. They came back tinged with the same red on the wall.
He had broken through the wall. His creativity now was pouring out from him – he could feel it rushing over his face, gushing down his cheeks. He was ready to write.