"Write something," they said. Ha. Like it comes so easy. But they'll never understand, so I meekly agree.

Later that night, I sit down. I watch as the computer boots up, enter the password, and open a new Word document (yes, that's my favorite processor; no, I will not engage in apologetics or excuse myself).

And then I retreat into my innermost thoughts trying to figure out what to write about.

Unless you've experienced this yourself, you have no inkling as to what I'm about to tell you. But make a genuine attempt to step into my head and maybe, maybe, you'll grasp something. Perhaps just a straw, but that's better than nothing.

And that's when it happens. My heart starts beating faster, my palms start sweating. I anxiously grab a pen cover to chew on (I could've sworn I had a box of gum in my pocket when I pulled my chair out, but the pen cap will have to do the job). I start twirling loose hairs. My eyes dart to and fro, searching for the burst of creativity eluding me.

Finally, after landing on a stain on the wall, a fire enters my eyes. This is it! I think to myself. My fingers hover over the keyboard briefly, bouncing up and down, until I finally allow them to push the back boxes, and they dance happily as line after line of Calibri fills the screen.

Done! I sit back, and stretch my arms and crack my spine as my breath slows. A slight grin rests on my lips, and I turn a critical eye on what moments ago I had considered a well written, thought provoking article.

What utter rubbish! I announce in disgust, to no-one in particular, as a deep frown replaces the smile that previously reigned across my face.

I slam on the backspace-bar, and watch as line after line of Calibri disappears from the screen.

Finally, I'm rewarded with a clean, new slate. Only then does a small voice speak up: "was that really necessary? Was it all that bad? Could it not fulfill your duty and get them off your back for the time being?"

I frantically cntl+z, and a wave of relief washes over me as it all comes beck. I open Edge (not my preferred browser, but that's what my filter allows) and log in, ready to publish this work of art.

"Are you really ready to release this rubbish?" the old voice returns. I rest my head in my hands and ponder this decision.

Tic toc tic toc, the clock goes softly in the background. But I find no rest.

Frustrated, I make a decision. "It is what it is and it'll be what it'll be," I declare, as I ctrl+a, cntr+c ctrl+v and hit publish.

Next time, I'll do better.