Dust
His mission was simple: Set out and cure writer's block. He didn't have to kill it per say. If the block should remain, it would be cured of it's less than symbiotic relationship with the writer.
Normally, it took the man two thirds of the day to fester enough energy to leave his cluttered apartment. Today was different; About an hour ago, you'd have seen the blinds down to block the sun.
About a foot and a half distance free from the floor is a military cot. It was his place to end his vision of cognition. Here he'd dream until the noise brought him back. Right next to the window, blinds down, and no sun.
It was common for him to sit and meditate.
Not a word. Slapped with silence, a few minutes phase out gracefully. The man leans his head angular to his hands, almost a slight tilt. No longer sprawled out on the cot. A chair holds him in a comfortable pose near the drafting table.
Leaning forward, a moment of inspiration plays its part while his arms arch around both sides of the page like a surreal painting. Just sitting at the end in a row of desks, pondering what ways facilitated the ability to harness the abundance of creativity he wished to extract.
What about the phone call from my friend? What about the job offers from various sources? What about the plans I had for this room/ my office/ wherever? The list continues.
He repositions his posture. You can hear his skeletal structure pop as he stretched. His pen rapidly leaving a trail of coherency; finally he's got a structure in mind to compose. Strange, ten minutes ago he was hovering in a corner of my mind. It was a place of mass destruction. Like a black hole of one's own experience; the method varied, the object to destroy writers block.
The young author cracked a suspicious grin as he picks up a wooden pencil and sharpens it with a utility knife. It was a rather striking mini spear really... almost space aged looking. It could easily be used as a surgical tool.
This guy pays attention to detail; the types of tools he used were carefully chosen. It was a visual layout of an engineer. This is a character trait he did not consider himself... perhaps he was unaware of this trait? One thing for sure, this creator was out to make a sharp writing device. Perhaps he'll put it to use.
To some it may have struck them ill that a pencil being suspended in air would meet its fate – to be sharpened 'the old fashioned way'. This would in turn, though it may sound peculiar, bring him peace of mind. For him this was a natural response to the human condition.
In all honesty, distraction came rather easily. Anything serves as a valid excuse. What is the purpose of distraction? How common is it that he put a collective of effort toward this trap? Is it a trap, or is it a place you go when you wish not to proceed? He wondered if he should worry when he catches himself falling distant toward his main goal. What was his main goal? Documentation. A trail of history. Mix in ideals, now you have fiction.
The true illness that has been plaguing the writer is the block itself. It was this one cluster of words that needed, or should I say stood out as a true dis ease begging for a cure. He broke away from his cloud of wonder. He scattered all his tools in view and gazed blankly. Why was he doing this? What possessed him to set this goal? He got slapped back to the source of his inspiration only to observe it had left him.
He set down the pen and sighed. In a catalyst of inspired nothingness, he grabs a triangular formed wooden pencil at the end of his desk. He smiles as he violently butchered the innocent writing block. In a rather noble posture already, he adjusts his posture in a fluid set of motions. This was intense for him. Having had the opportunity to destroy his writer's block, the simple act of doing so brought up a massive amount of bottled rage. You see, unused writers blocks did not amuse him.
Soon after a long exhale, he swept the shreds of wood into a pile with his hands, and placed them within a box labeled 'writer's dust'.