“Just start, damn you!” he cursed himself while staring at a void of white space. He set his fingertips on the surface of keycaps worn by the friction of sweat, time, and the desperate movements of joints and muscles desperate to transmit his truth directly to the screen.
Yet, tonight, there was nothing.
Nothing but him, his coffee, the screen, and his last cigarette. He drew one last drag deep into his lungs holding it there for a moment before letting it go. He cast it away into the old coffee tin sitting on his window sill watching as the last bit of smoke gently wafted upwards into the night air.
He winced at the harsh light of the screen. The white void seemed to already know his mind’s first move. Again he set his fingers to the keys like eager horses waiting for that instant where the gun fires and the gates open, waiting to run.
Still, there was nothing.
He rose from his chair, lumbering over his desk. The pale white of the fluorescent light cast a shadow on his desk, on his unfinished work. He picked up the cup that was now as empty as he seemed to be. He held it in his hands studying the inside where its obsidian surface hid under the cover of amber patina.
He pivoted on one foot to face the kitchen behind his desk when a sequence of notes crept through the crisp night air of the windowsill. He poked his head out the window turning upwards to listen. The faint notes of the guitar spoke of a silent war between passion and frustration.
“This was something,” he thought. This was struggle.
Adam Buker is a freelance author living in Springfield, MO. When he’s not writing he’s usually cooking, playing with his kids, making music, taking photos, or otherwise pondering the mysteries of life.