Friday, 14 September 2012


  I dropped myself on the chair and continue to stare at the blank, expressionless paper sitting in front of me. I scanned the whole desk that was carpeted in drawings created by the students who had sat here previously. 
I pulled at the sleeves of my light, cotton jacket as I noticed a piece of wood with led clinging onto it. 
I lift up the pencil with my thumb and index finger, pivoting it and pointing the sharp end at the paper as if I was threatening it.
I begin to think, but not a single idea would puncture my brain. I moved my hand towards the upper-right corner of the page, my hand moving swiftly as I wrote my name.
I leaned back and slouched down slowly, my right hand fiddling with the pencil, whilst the left tapped my knee impatiently.
I let go of the pencil and watch as it spins steadily and cascades into the crease between the two tables.
Brushing myself off, I stand up and rub my hands together. 
I could always devour this work later.

1 comment:

  1. Sometimes the faucet flows and sometimes it is all dry. We sit and we try to write. Sometimes it is easy. Sometimes it is hard. We sit and we try to write.That is what we do. Us, the writers.

    The fact that you wrote about your inability to write is a good sign. Keep at it.