"A Constant Struggle"

He sat there in the small office staring blankly at the screen in front of him, it being the only thing that provided light. On the screen there was a sheet of paper, with all manner of literary craftsmanship spilt all over it. There came a long yawn but he refused to acknowledge that it was in fact two o’clock in the morning.

He stabbed the Enter key, continuing down to another page, this one blank and devoid of any visible work. The cursor blinked back at him from the top of the page, the fine line laughing at him.

Damn it all, he wanted to write something.

His fingers hovered above the ebony keys, practically invisible in the near-darkness, desperate to stab at them like a madman with a knife, to pour out creation, to stick two fingers up at the intimidating nothingness and write something – anything.

He didn’t understand – it was all there laid out in the other application, bullet-pointed and crafted to perfection from start to finish. If it was right there in front of him, why couldn’t he go on? Why didn’t he? Why couldn’t he just get it over and done with? Why didn’t it come when he wanted it to? Why was he such a failure?

He buried his head in his hands, leaning back into the comfortable leather chair. Was he even in the right mood to warrant forcing himself to do this? By all accounts, it was late and he was irritable. He removed his glasses to rub at his dry, stinging eyes, blinking rapidly in an attempt to moisturise them.

This inability hurt. It meant everything to him. He felt dead. It felt like his only lifeline, his one skill he relished in. He certainly couldn’t sing or act or draw – he was furious when he saw Photoshopped perfection written off by their creators as just a few hours of painting watercolour, or working with HB pencils or charcoal. At least he couldn’t lie about his talent – it was there, on paper, for everyone to see.

But no one could see him now, angry and aggravated and depressed at this ungodly hour. They couldn’t see him screaming at himself in self-loathing, his confidence and self-esteem in his abilities nonexistent. For all those who left him glowing reviews, they never saw the darker side when he went weeks without writing and days without sleep, when he ignored his fitness regime and watched his muscle waste away whilst becoming near anorexic from lack of eating properly.

If they could see that, then they’d stop all the kissing up to him and the unwarranted labelling of him as Mr Perfect. Perhaps they’d actually feel sorry for him, the man hiding behind an Internet alias, and perhaps start to truly appreciate what it took to give them what they wanted. Perhaps they’d stop complaining about how he left them on cliffhangers for weeks or months on end, maybe taking a second or two to realise that such talent didn’t come without a price – that being that he would go through periods of lack of inspiration and apathy, even when he was determined to see a project through to the very end.

Then they’d understand. Then they’d shut up.

Finally deciding to take into account that it was in fact late, he closed the document, his eyes briefly shimmering with glee as the bullying cursor of temptation disappeared. He shut the system down. As the room was plunged into darkness, he switched the infernal thing off by the plug, got up and opened the window wide, breathing in the welcome cool night air and the light breeze it brought with it. Closing the curtains he dragged himself towards his bed, throwing off his clothes and diving under the frigid but welcome covers, pulling them over his shoulders and digging his head into the thick pillows, letting his consciousness fade away. He’d sleep on it.

Then there came the most wonderfully abstract dream…