Writing about writing

She sits there, still, fingers lingering over the keyboard, the keyboard that pleads for that special connection between key and finger tip which would lead to the wondrous expression of creativity and imagination.

But she just sits there.

The growing need to write something meaningful slowly devours her soul as she sprawls out on the desk, head in hands, thinking, groaning, moaning, dying. Dying. She's quite sure her life is seeping through her fingers right now. She has to write. She has to write!

But she just sits there.

Her mind, the place she always trusted to be filled to the brim with colourful thoughts that gleefully flit around and adorable plot bunnies that hop from base to ceiling to ground again...It was empty, blank, only sign of "life" the littered remains of dead ideas...or those so ancient Death should have long before claimed their souls. She couldn't use those. They were pathetic. 

So she just sits there.

There were thousands of things in her world she could use...So why did it seem so bleak? Why was nothing attracting her now? Why did everything look too horrible for the successful transition from idea to written words? 

Why was she just sitting there?

Was it because of her boring life? She admits that she hates the routine-wake up, go to school, sleep-and every Monday when she opens her sleepy eyes, the only thought in her mind is "What the freak am I doing with my life?" And the answer irritates her. She was supposed to learn in school to get a good job later and get money and then live a "good life" and grow old and retire and die. That was her life. That was what she was doing with her life. And that was utterly depressing. She hated it and so...she wrote. She escaped to worlds of her own where life was adventure and action and love and it didn't end with you wondering why you had wasted your chance at excitement in school or at the office. But if this was true (And she knew it was) then why was she unable to write now since life was being extremely boring?

Why was she still just sitting there?

Her computer screen glared at her and the keyboard screamed, demanding for her to type on it. But what in the world could she write about? Love? (Over-rated) Adventure? (Too long) Angst? (Depressing) Mystery? (Tiring) What? What? What? She had a freaking History lesson to pay attention to (Honestly, the teacher had been droning on about it for about half an hour already while she suffered from her own inner turmoil.) and a debate to prepare for. She needed to think of something, write about it and she would finally be free! And that need to write would stop nibbling at her soul. (She knows she stated previously it was devouring her soul but it reached its limit and got full. So it chose to nibble.)

But wha-

Writing. That's it! Well, technically it's the inability to write but it was an idea nonetheless. She could write about writing! Yes! Yes! Yes! Victory was hers!

And so she proceeded to type the prose out, just sitting there, typing, smiling...

And knowing the ending's probably going to suck but not really caring.