I am seated in an old rickety chair, my grandfather’s. The old compressed foam is covered by a checkered linen and on this you can find numerous stains—ink, ketchup, and its likes. And farther above that you will find me, in my torn cargo pants sitting into the late hours of the night. A dusty green lamp sits on my work surface, a small wooden writing desk. It bathes me in a cool light, allowing just enough visibility to see speckled dust motes swimming through the air. The last minty tendrils of light fail to travel far past me and the rest of my tiny room is muted in a silent darkness.
My rough palms hold a sleek pen, seemingly the only new thing in this ancient, dusty room. I sigh and bring my pen closer to my paper, then hesitate. What will I write? In my only free time, I want to do something productive; yet here I am, sitting here with an impermeable wall blocking inspiration. And on some days, inspiration is like a balloon; once penetrated, the numerous thoughts all rush away before I can catch them. And then again, some days I have just enough to write about, or even a bit too much, in that the time flies by and before I know it, I need to get dressed for work.
All these days, yet lately, I have had only one type, the wall type. Nothing good is coming tonight. I turn off my lamp and feel my way into bed. My head hits the headboard. Ouch. I slide down a little. Before I know it, sleep has arrived.