Writer's Block

She opened the blank word document and stared. Why did the cursor have to blink that way? Distractingly. Threateningly. Like some sort of emergency signal, silently screaming at her: I'm here! I'm here! TYPE! She posed her hands on the keyboard, thinking hard, ready to punch at the keys the moment a good idea struck. But all she really did was notice how the wall clock at her side seemed to tick in perfect sync with the cursor on the blank screen. Oh hell, she thought, sitting back in her chair once again. 'Focus!' she silently commanded her brain, yet again. She needed to write a story. A good story, at that. But she had been sitting there for over two hours now and had absolutely nothing to show for it. Except a couple of discarded draft emails and empty chocolate wrappers strewn over the desk.
Chocolate was her stimulant of choice. It got the inspiration flowing whenever she was stuck for words, something that happened ironically often, considering that she was a writer and was expected to sprout perfect sentences in much the same way as software engineers were expected to be geeky and bespectacled. Or accountants were expected to do rapid calculations in their mind, no matter how overwhelming the numbers. She sighed and shook her head, trying to clear it. She shouldn't be thinking of accountants; they kind of disturbed her. Well, not all accountants, just one in particular. And he did not just disturb her, he seemed to have taken over her life and not even realized it.
Her eyes wandered to the cell phone that lay amid the purple chocolate wrappers. Silent. Still no call; not even a message. Were accountants really such busy people that they couldn't spare ONE short phone call in over a week? They were definitely not so financially deprived, so lack of time could be the only reason he hadn't called. "OR," a condescending voice in her head piped up, "perhaps he just doesn't WANT to call you. Maybe he's busy with all his GIRLFRIENDS; he IS quite the Ladies' Man after all." She chastised the voice to shut up and bit her lip in frustration. Please call, she silently prayed, eying the cell phone as a vision of his beautiful face filled her mind. Please, it would make me so happy to hear your voice, if only for a minute or two...
The silence prevailed, except for the irritating tick-tock of the clock, still in tune with the patronizing blink-blink of the cursor on the screen. She wondered again if she should call him instead, or send the email she had typed and discarded so many times in the past two hours. But she stopped herself. She was not about to come across as a desperate psycho freak who constantly needed attention. She had made that mistake too many times before. And smart people learnt from their mistakes. At least, that's what everyone said.
She resisted the urge to yell in frustration. Or to start throwing about random objects and make a mess of her room, like people did in movies when overcome with a fit of hysteria. This was no movie, it was her messed-up reality. How could she have let this happen again? She had promised herself: never again, at least not in a very long time, would she fall. Or even slip. And yet here she was once again, pat bang in the middle of it: the messy, confounding, slow-poison-like, obliterating depths of attraction. "Fatal attraction", she had learnt the hard way why they called it that.
It had taken her a long time to dig out of its dense undergrowth and make her way to the safety of the top branches of the tree, where she had been sitting with her head tilted upwards, enjoying the sunshine and the breeze, free and happy. Until he had come along and enticed her, talked her into sneaking a glance at the glorious view that spread out far below them. She had resisted at first, tried to ignore him, but the temptation had soon become irresistible. And before she knew it, she had risked a peak which had turned into a stare as the height transfixed her, and then she had been dizzy and lost all balance to free-fall. Down, down, down.
Or perhaps this tree analogy wasn't quite accurate. Perhaps it had been more like she had just swum out to the safety of the shore after a long time of getting tossed around in the current, and had at long last basked in the sunshine and breeze, free and happy, when he had come along like a mighty tidal wave and swept over her. Sucking her back into the mighty swirling waters, which she hadn't quite learnt how to stay afloat in yet. Which she felt she would NEVER quite learn how to stay afloat in, never mind swim through skillfully.
She sighed again, feeling listless. She needed to write - she HAD to - she had a deadline to meet, and she didn't even have a starting line for the story yet. The clock ticked on; the cursor blinked on; the phone remained silent, amid the purple chocolate wrappers, and she had nothing in her mind except a growing sense of defeating futility. Did he have any idea that, thanks to him, she couldn't work, couldn't focus at all? While he sat somewhere doing his mental maths or tapping at a calculator or whatever it was that accountants did, she sat here feeling intimidated by a little blinking black line on a fiberglass screen and waiting anxiously for his call, hoping for it, NEEDING it.
No wonder they called her insecure, all the earlier fish she had frolicked with in The Sea. No wonder she tried so hard to stay nice and dry on the shore, enjoying the view, yet failed every time. To end up like this: frazzled and on-edge, in a constant state of apprehension. For a call that she knew very well would not come. Because boys did not keep their promises. At least not to her.

*Disclaimer: The above is a purely fictional piece of prose, not to be confused in any way with my own life or mind. I also apologize for centering so much of my writing around love and rejection and the like but it is what I write best about so please bear with me. I'll try write more varied and interesting things when I grow into a better writer, promise. And I, for one, certainly do keep my promises. :)