Pitch black darkness. My only source of light; my desk lamp. Utter boredom. My weapons; a No.2 pencil and my ever-growing imagination. However, today I have hit a speedbump. I sigh as I stretch my body in my favorite leather chair.

"I really hate writers block," I say rubbing my eyes in frustration.

I plop back down in my chair and eye at the papers on my desk. I was writing a story about a boy finding his mark in the world, but in the mist of writing; my brain stopped. Unable to make my thoughts into words, I decided to take a long deserved break. My dog; seeing that I am no longer staring at a piece of paper; attempts to jump in my chair for affection.

"Not now, Odie, mabye later," I whisper caressing his small head.

Odie looks at me for a few seconds with his black marbles, then quietly lays down on the floor; paiently wait for me to play. I smile as I turn to look over at my shelf. It was a mess, but it was my mess. Binders full of adventures, bent composition books busting with comedy, and loose leaf paper dripping with mystery. All were stories that were mended by choices, experiences, and stages of life. I closed my eyes, and my mind begain to think of all the writing I did in the past. The countless hours of nonstop writing, the crunching of paper as a old story is forgotten and a new one is written, the tears that splash words of depressing drama, the hate that brand words into firerce poetry, the smiles and laughter that contridute to the tales of fantesy. Despite my beautiful daydream, my eyes snap open as ideas begin to surface. My arm begins to move almost by its own will as it picks up the pencil on my desk and writes my story. Yet it will never end, never stop, never cease until I write the final page and publish the classic for the world to enjoy.