So there I was, at home, on the loveseat, socks off, sitting in front of my computer. Productivity was right there…waiting to be humped on the edge of my coffee table. I was ready to get shit done. I was ready to spin my crazy ass thoughts into literary gold. Then all of a sudden, boom, writers fatigue.

My eyes instantly glossed over while my fingers hovered above the keyboard. The sound of white noise filled my mind. System…shut…the fuck…down. I couldn’t produce. I couldn’t think. Intricate and complicated phrases like “the dog ran fast,” completely escaped me. My fingers went “mute.”

I’m not in the right head space. I’m stuck in a perpetual grey, blindly searching for a hue I forgot the name of. It’s prison. I’m captive within a void of frustration and stagnation and I hate it.

I honestly don’t know what to do. Grey is a very pretty color though. So I suppose I should find a way to enjoy even this.