My mind went blank as I stared at the page, pen hovering an inch above.
I watched the ink slowly crawl down the nib and pool at the tip threatening to spill over.
I sighed and felt frustrated with the cobwebs in my head tangling up the adventures I knew were waiting there for me to write.
The ink finally dripped and splattered abstractly on the unlined paper meant to be the backdrop for my next masterpiece, or first, depending on your perspective.
The puddle ran out in all directions forming shapes and scenes, still obscured by my foggy awareness.
Little dark figures birthed suspenseful journeys on cross-country trains, in twin-engine planes above The Alps, and sailed the high seas until forced to walk the plank. Black holes swallowed them up as a sword point persuaded them to make the leap through time and space among the stars. They landed on a station inhabited by races from across galaxies and were enhanced with robotics to make living in any atmosphere possible.
Their exploits inspired future generations to take risks to inhabit the Earth once more. They built primitive tree houses, in which to raise their young, and learned to thrive off the land.
Suddenly the families, animals, and land once again merged into a lifeless, muddy lake in the center of my sheet. I was sad to see them go.
My head fell forward, and I dropped my pen. I caught myself before landing my face in the inkblot.
I couldn’t remember what I dreamt. What a mess of wasted ink!