I stare at the blank paper, but that provides no inspiration. I look around the room, but I still have no ideas. I wonder how I'm supposed to write something. The room offers no mysteries or dangers to explore, the blank paper simply returns my blank stare. The well of my creativity is dry for the moment. I have nothing to write about. Yet write I must, so I pick up the pencil. I turn it in my fingers, thinking. Often times, my head is full to bursting with ideas and I feel I must let at least of them out onto paper. But now is not one of those times. My head is nearly empty and I wish it were this way more, but not today, not now. Now it is too quiet, too peaceful, too serene. Now, no ideas are bursting forth, desperately attempting to escape my head, and yet now I am forced to write. I sigh. I have no ideas. I put my pencil to the paper, and I write anyway.