It was a long morning, though it seemed to not be the case. It was a long morning that was moving at an accelerated pace, which normally implies that some sort of thing was getting done and was getting done whilst finding oneself within the zone, but that was not quite the case, for it was lived in and it was experienced at a slow rate of time, but it was the hindsight that made it seem like it went by quickly.

They were there, at their desk drinking their coffee, staring at a screen and looking for some sort of inspiration, but it was just not there. It was not to be found, though they should have known that that was going to be the case. It was not as though they hadn’t done this song and dance many times before, and realistically it was not as though they were going to stop any time soon. Still, they never knew as to what would happen and perhaps their fortunes would change so long as they kept going through this same routine. It was possible, though not probable at this stage and they didn’t get their hopes up about the whole thing, but sometimes it was more frustrating than usual.

It almost seemed as though they were bound and compelled to go through this continual pattern of whatever it was that they were going through. There was no strong reason to keep doing it, but there was also no real reason to stop, other than they could probably source inspiration elsewhere. However, to them there was only one option to go ahead and that option was the continual process of looking at a screen and hoping that somehow the inspiration would just come to them.

There always was the option of just writing about the attempts to try and write. That could be spun into something. They could even write about the blankness of the screen and examine the process of the screen losing its blankness as more characters filled it with each passing stroke of a key. There was the possibility of writing about the space around the screen and how it all functioned in a way where everything was laid out so that what was necessary to reach remained easy to reach. However, they felt that that would be throwing in the towel. That would be giving up in a manner that they could just not accept. Thus they kept on staring.

The morning kept on stretching out, seeming to never end, and yet it was almost done. The coffee, not finished, went cold. It was a terrible waste. However, its being cold was the signal to stop. That was the time where they knew to get up and walk away and start working on other things. The routine needed an end and so long as that end was signaled, it could begin again on another morning, and then another, continuing on with no discernible end in sight.

The time it took to write five-hundred words: 07:48:16

This kind of felt easy to write.
Got stuck near the end writing the last few words.

Written at home.