Moving the mouse across my dusty wooden desk-the arrow on the screen follows along with delicacy. It hovers above a new tab and I watch as a blank screen appears in its own kind of brilliance. An empty page that contains endless possibilities.

The whiteness stretches from one side of the page to the other, calling out to be tainted. To be stained with thoughtful words and poems. To be written upon with anger and fear. To have a crashing wave of sadness and depression wash over it, leaving a hint of joy and adventure tucked in between each line.

I take in a deep breath and let it out, watching as tiny dust particles scatter in the air, each traveling with a purpose. Some float, others drift. Some dance and others simply fall back down to the deserted desk.

“Here we go.”

My fingers jump from one letter to another. As they do, colorful words portray themselves onto the white page. My overwhelming thoughts of stress pour themselves out onto the paper, my physical pain to ignore my growling stomach, my psychological pain to ignore the screams in my head.

These overbearing burdens fill the page quickly. It floods with dread and drips with misery.

My fingers stop, and slowly my cursor moves back over an unforgivable mistake. A red line appears, shaping itself underneath one of my descriptive words...

“Pathetic.”

Cursing myself, more thoughts flow through my mind. Thoughts of my life and my loneliness. Thoughts of my past stories that I thought of as failures. Of past moments when inspiration struck me, yet I had nowhere to put it. Back then, the inspiration would slowly pass by, and I would be left with my guilt as a writer, regret of not having a pen, a computer, or even a friend to put words into.

Looking back over my lengthy paragraph, I hesitate about what to do next. Though, looking at my haunting mistake…., I swallow my pride and delete the story from sight.

I start again. This time with the description of a forest.

A forest that is dark and depressing. Where my words hang in the air like fog and my fear fills everything with life. Each description carries me to this place.

I pace myself, not wanting to go too fast.

A small smile cracks itself onto my lips.

The dark forest surrounded me. So deep and mysterious. Nothing was to be seen but tall trees that stood brilliantly and brave. I imagined myself standing in the thickness of the cursed place. I felt the moss grow up between my toes, and took in the fresh air of freedom. It truly was a beautiful place.

It was my beautiful place…  

Then, my words start to fade in color and abruptly my fingers come, once again, to a halt. Looking at my screen, my smile falls into a dissatisfied scowl.

Silently, I highlight the paragraph and with a simple click it vanishes. Again, I am left with a lifeless page…

I push away from my desk and look up. I stare at my ceiling and listen to my slowly rotating fan. It spins with tranquility and purpose. The simplicity of my room calms my wandering mind.

I have to focus. Time is escaping and I still have nothing for a story. Just an uncomplicated beginning of a stereotypical place.

A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

“Come on…” I whisper to the air.

Slightly irritated, I force my eyes to close. My mind flashes back to a scene from high school. I was so self- conscious of my stories. Any story I had, I believed to be good but, I always had an inner voice telling me that they were childish and plain.

“Maybe...”

Opening my eyes, I pull myself back to the desk. Inhaling as before, I let my hands hover above the raised letters.

“Lauren, that’s a good name.”

As uninspired words rip through the page, I see the story unfurl in front of me. There was a small room, dusty and bleak. The floorboards were bent and useless, the windows shattered and jagged. This uncomfortable space held two people. One was the mother of an unborn child. Her purpose in life felt useless and blank, except for the future of the child she was bringing into the world. She was miserable and broken, and her heart suffered from immense pain of abandonment. There was no one who seemed care for her, no one to accept any of her affections.

Accompanying her in the palpably empty room was a doctor. He was a committed midwife who only wanted more of a meaning to life. There had to be more of a meaning to life, but discovering it was seemingly impossible.

As he anticipated the coming arrival of the early newborn, small beads of sweat embedded themselves upon his brow. He recognized his life purpose, as his rhythm of work had become difficult to discontinue. Yet his longing for more was still to be uncovered.

Imagining the scene, I tilt my head as if just barely being able to hear the small uncontrolled screams from a child. My eyes began watering as I describe the small being. She was beautiful and innocent. A light that filled the dark room with hope. Something that could be seen as perfect.

The mother wept as she was handed her squirming baby girl.

Quietly shushing the child, the mother wrapped her in a small, uncomfortable blanket. The baby became silent as she listened to the gentle sound of her mother's voice.

This precious child came into the world with nothing…  not even a name. Just a heart, brain and soul. She was empty and pitiful and invaluable.

This girl, was just like everyone else, yet as she would go through her life she would face unfair trials. Walls that couldn't be climbed, hurdles that couldn’t be passed, choices that would stain, and regrets that would haunt her forever.

She was given the name Lauren, and though an innocent child, she would grow to fear the world and eventually die with only a few cherished memories.

Coming to a stop, I let out a sigh.

I then reread my short story. It was simple yet thoughtful. But was it good enough?

Was it good enough to break through the ceiling? Was it good enough to reach my readers? Was it even good enough to share?

I sit in my chair, contemplating. It is creative but short… A pitiful taste fills my mouth as I highlight the three page story.

“Maybe another time…”  I say emotionless and with a slight pain in my heart I erase the small light.

Sighing with even more frustration, I think back again about my own life. It too has been unfair and cruel. I think about the times I had shared with friends, and they had laughed at me. Some had lied. Others had been straightforward. Each and every one of these reactions having a traumatizing affect on my memories.

I feel a sense of loneliness and failure creep over my body. Covering me with a blanket of pity and lifelessness.

It’s just not fair…

Another memory comes into view. It’s of my family. Their worried faces, my mothers fumbling hands and my father's words that stab my side to this day: Do you really think you're good enough?

I left home that day with a passionate rage. I wanted to prove my father wrong. Prove my friends wrong. My teachers. Complete strangers. Myself.

They were wrong.

I look at the empty soulless page. The cursor blinks at a steady pace. The page seems completely lifeless to me.

“Do you really think you're good enough?”

I flinch as I feel my heart sink in my chest.

Where was the faith I had in the small blinking line? Why had I never thought twice about my career choice?

…

“Because…

Nothing will get done if I don’t try again and again. This page will always stay blank as long as I do.”

As I typed this last sentence, I felt relief wash over me. Thoughts and memories vanished as if they were never in my mind for second. A small smile appeared on my lips. As a single salted tear fell from my eye I whispered to the air,

“These are the toxic thought of a true writer.

These are my toxic thoughts.”