A dark room lights up as the screen of a laptop wakens from its slumber. A pair of hands dangle loosely above the keyboard and in the silence, a deep breath of despair falls on phantom ears. The silence is then shattered by the methodical clicking of the keys, until the blue screen changes to an image of a man and woman. They appear happy, yet this is the sole joy brought from this infernal machine.

It is time to write.

In the dim light a man slides the chair from under the desk, and it makes not a sound. He sits, slightly hunched, and hangs his head in shame.

He’s been here before.

It’s two in the morning and the screen beckons to him. He stares hopelessly into the white abyss of the text editor. Like a sculptor with a large slab of marble, he ponders where to strike next. His hands dangle back to the keyboard.

Facebook.

After a few moments of shameless friend stalking, the man leans back and scratches his head. He wonders how that happened, but dismisses it for it is already done. He closes the window and returns to his blank slate, his giant slab of marble, his…

Email.

The man shifts uncomfortably in his chair. He can check his email on his phone. He can check it anywhere. Why here? He runs his fingers through the remnants of what was once a full head of hair. The desolate wasteland upon his highest peak is near barren, but beneath the roots grows something. An image. An idea. The window closes and the man returns to his blank slate, his giant slab of marble, his ball of clay, his…

Wikipedia.

Time has indeed flown, but hardly any fun has been had. The man glances at the clock, keeper of his productivity, or lack thereof. A window closes. A slate rises, marble beckons, clay rolls, a drop of water pierces the tranquillity of a sink of dishes…

Focus.

Dishes beckon, marble shines, clay moulds, fingers crack, a blank slate awaits like a guard standing at attention…

Shiny.

Distractions abound. The man twists in his chair as if he were in agonizing pain. The chair groans under his movement, the cheap wood and metal grating together creating a symphony of silence piercing shrieks. He pauses, only for a moment, to listen for the rustling of his girlfriend. She continues sleeping, undisturbed by the banshee like shriek of his four legged torture device. His hands extend the foot and a half and lets his fingers dangle above the keyboard.

Life.

The first taps echo slowly in the darkness. Then more. Followed by a rhythmic tapping. The space bar no longer taps, nor clicks, but thumps. A heart beat. The lifeblood of creation, the godlike power of making something from nothing, consumes the man. His heart beats in unison. Is this the one?

Complication.

The tapping slows, as does the heartbeat. The rhythm fades and the man stares into the screen. The screen meets his gaze tauntingly, staring into the dry-yet-oily face of creation. As the staring match continues, the man realizes there can only be one victor. There are some marks upon the slate, some chips from the marble, some dents in the clay, some fingers upon the…

iPhone.

The chair groans as the man leans back in frustration to stare through the ceiling and into the sky. His arms dangle slightly to the sides of the chair and he stares longingly into nothingness. His fingertips dance along the carpet’s surface and he closes his eyes.

He’s been here before.

In the dim light the man hangs his head in shame. He stands and stretches, then slowly slides the chair back beneath the desk without a sound.

It’s time to sleep.

The windows close until only the image of a man and woman remains. They appear happy, yet this is the sole joy from yet another failed attempt at productivity. A finger descends across the image and plunges into the heart of the infernal machine. The light flickers dimly and and in the silence, a breath of despair falls on phantom ears. A dimly lit room plunges suddenly into darkness.