He had Writer's Block (he labeled himself a writer selfishly), the Block of the Dark Times, the Enemy of the Morning Pages, the giant tumor in the back of his creative mind, omnipresent in the middle of any attempt of expressive thought.
He felt like writing in third person helped the ideas come, and would possibly chip away at that giant boulder maniacally laughing in his presence. Nothing felt better to The Elephant in the Room Called your Brain then the white void of the page staying blank, the pen without a strong manual grip. The keyboard collecting dust, aside from the fapping times of course.
Maybe writing like this did help. It sure didn't feel like it however.
And still he forced himself to type, type, type, and write whatever garbage the Fuck You Rock would allow past it's constipating blockade, or whatever he could sneak past it. He soldiered on in this great war.
And then he had the thought: soldiered on... Everyone seemed to be using this cliche through times of personal struggle, grief, or hardship. But this personal hardship also flew across the contrast of an air-conditioned Starbucks and an audible slurp of a Venti Mocha. He raised his arms from the laptop and stretched his neck. Life surely was a mortal struggle in this situation. But what of those who were actual soldiers? Warriors? Fighters on the verge of death, the dance on the fine wire between success and utter failure. Let's just say one loss was not acceptable. Not just any regular season games, these battles.
He imagined not just the soldiers playing cards somewhere in Okinawa in the present day, not just those on the beach of Normandy (he thought of that time he watched Saving Private Ryan and all the gore), but those men long, long ago. What could "soldier on" have meant to those Vikings defying the cruel Sea Gods, Germanic barbarians invading the Roman Empire, Mongol raiders crossing the Dothraki Sea, and so on. The blood, the smell of death and post-death shit, the tears, and the animal war cries long forgotten to history. Good thing he hadn't eaten that cannabis brownie before typing or he might have had a panic attack then and there.
What caused these men to soldier on? The promise of a god? Of gods? Of men who pretended they were gods? What enabled these ancestors to keep on living, fighting, and travelling without frequent flyer miles? Friends being mutilated in front of their eyes, their cities being decimated, their crops turning to ash. Their courage, stupidity, or both must have been the reason, he thought finally. The courage to tackle an obstacle no matter the cost, despite the fear, yeah, that must have been it.
So too he vowed to chip away at Boulder-Oni until his creativity and hackiness flowed through like a river, and not the municipal bullshit like the kind you see on "Naturally Sourced" water bottles. The organic, free-range kind of river. Yeah, something like that. He vowed to keep launching bombs at the Block like it was fucking Normandy. He would soldier on, doing anything to defeat it no matter the cost.
...Well, as long as that didn't involve him engaging in actual warfare, risking his life, or even giving up Starbucks. Fuck that. He was glad to be alive in such a time. He then checked his phone for the next ten minutes and fantasized sexually about the cute blonde barista.
Happy Thanksgiving. Remember to be grateful, and hug and kiss your loved ones.