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Stiffness envelops your fingers as you hold the pen in a shaking hand. The paper lies blank before you, waiting to be filled, silent, patient. Staring you in the face with unreal eyes. Your muse has run, escaped from its endless work, and you sit, without inspiration, deathly still. You make no movement, the pen is filled with ink, ready to spill your ideas onto the sheet before you, but nothing comes. You try to think of something creative, but your muse is now non-existant. Random thoughts with no meaning swirl around your head, overlapping in your mind, but no inspiration comes. Fractured images of your own boring life circle your brain, dragging your thoughts to unwanted places as you sit trying so hard to do something out of the ordinary, trying to write something so you can escape from just what is keeping you down.
You sit thinking how terrible this all is, your eyes clouded over, misty with tears you won't let fall. Your vision blurred, you stare endlessly. And then you realise, all the time you were cursing your muse for abandoning you, she hadn't, she was teaching you a lesson. You feel movement in your arm, and watch, amazed as your hand passes across the page, the ink spilling your exact thoughts and actions into reality. You wipe your eyes dry and re-read what you have written, and see it is exactly what has cursed you... 'Stiffness envelops your fingers as you hold the pen in a shaking hand...'