Hundred.

One hundred words a day, be it fictitious stories, idle banter or incoherent ramblings, I aspire to work my decaying writing muscles. I longed to, as a matter of fact. I blame procrastination, because its a real thing now; not just an abstract concept made up to explain how well I waste my time. Shrugs.

You and I both know that is not the underlying problem. I could fault everyone and everything else but in the end, it comes back to me. Writer's block. Heh. How does someone identifies as a writer? Is it a persona? A pen name? Do you just wake up one day, and decides that you're going to tell everyone you're gonna start writing for a living? It's not that easy,innit?

Could you suffer from writer's block when you're not even a full-fledged writer? Hell, do even real writers experience this? I have absolutely no idea.

You thought to save the world.
Now, you struggle to save yourself.

White.

"Wake up!" said a voice.

I jumped, eyes opened. I was in a small room, and in front of me was a metallic table. On top of it, lies the only source of illumination in the room, a digital lamp, giving off a white glare. Blinded by it, I tried standing up but, I could not. Panicking as adrenaline pumps into my system, I tried again, harder this time. I am strapped to the chair. I struggled as I jerked harder each time, heaving my body upwards yet the chair remains unyielding.

What is the meaning of this? What is this place? Why am I here? I asked. At least, I thought I did, as I received no response from the other party. I looked around the room as I continued to escape my restraints, searching for the source of the voice which alarmed me. There was no one else in the room with me; it was completely empty aside from the table and lamp. I pushed against the table, it didn't bulge.

I need to get away from here! I thought as I was instilled by a sudden sense of urgency induced by my immobility. I was trapped. In this windowless room. I screamed for help, hoping that someone would come to my rescue. Then, the entire room lit up and I could only see white.

The Wind Cries.

The wind howls,
Icy and biting
The eagles soar,
Mighty and regal
The sun shines,
Raw and bright
The hikers trek,
Tired but unrelenting
The clouds gather,
Moist and fluff
The mountain stands,
Tall and proud.

Future.

Who can tell what the future holds? Besides being incredibly optimistic (at the start) about it, there's not much of a discernible clear path towards the end. What end though? For survival? To self-sustain? Enjoy the finer things in life?

No matter the end goal, the struggle will be imminent and continuous. Unless, of course, if the struggle is not real, then it's a completely different story altogether. Bad pun fully intended. 

Who knows what I'll be doing in the future; I sure as hell don't. So, all the best to not knowing what to do (most likely).

Liebe.

She shivers, making hisses of condensed air which fogs up her skewed glasses as she blows into her palms, trying to transfer some bodily heat to her numbing fingers. Tucking her worn and faded purple jacket closer, she makes another attempt in tackling the problems. With a crooked black mechanical pencil held tightly in hand, neat and tidy letters slowly fill up the thin white paper as she scrawls on and on. Unbeknownst to her, evident lines of each letter began appearing on the stack of writing paper underneath, imprinted due to her powerful and heavy strokes. She hunches forward ever so slightly as she becomes more and more engrossed by the problem at hand, her nose almost touching the paper. Then, she looks up suddenly, adjusting her ever-dropping spectacles with a slight off-handed motion of her hand as she notices my scrutiny for the past fifteen minutes or so.

“What?” she asked incredulously as I smiled.