You cursed blank page, you sit there and mock me with your white perfection. My fingers hover endlessly over your keys. You whisper mercilessly that I will never be good enough, that I always have been and will always be a failure. My ideas are never original enough and my dreams will never be worth anything. You tell me that I am unintelligent, that my grammar is horrific, and that my imagination has never been more dull, until my mind becomes as blank as your glowing screen. My fingers ache from holding them so still, while my mind scrambles for something, anything, to write. I close your program in defeat, and a part of me dies.

But slowly my imagination grows like spring warmth creeps into winter's slumbering branches. My dreams become wild adventures and daring romances, my heroes become more honorable, villains become capable of greater evil. My ideas become free once more as they weave themselves into stories. I have found freedom in my mind. As the moment of truth comes for every hero, I know I must again face this giant bugaboo of a white screen. However, I put it off, fantasy easier than reality. Time moves on and my stories become bigger, more beautiful and all encompassing novels. These novels overtake my mind I begin to lose track of the most important things. I cannot sleep, I cannot eat, I cannot rest, as these decaying stories poison my mind. I become angry and resentful of those who are not struggling with this formidable enemy. Why must my fingers become paralyzed? Why cant I entertain and enlighten? Why can I not craft such deep beautiful stories? But deep down I know that I have the power to do anything with words. It is time.

As I march solemnly to the mouth of the cave and I open the program I feel fear mingled with sweat trickling down my back, my breath races, my fingers needlessly hover, and this Medusa like creature has struck me again. The music I'm listening to becomes too loud to think. I feel my fingers become stone and my mind races as I overhang the cliff of failure. An overwhelming panic overtakes me as I look into to the vast abyss below. There must be another ending to this story. There has to be.

Suddenly a peace settles over me. I can save this ending. I shakily pick up my sword and slowly stand up. The tables have turned. The sword becomes the only thing I cling to. I AM intelligent, MY dreams DO mean something, I only become a failure WHEN I PERMIT it. I WILL be free. The words start coming faster and faster so that my fingers become the only thing that slows me down. Story after story hits the pages at maximum speed. The white dragon retreats to it's cave, not yet vanquished, yet I smile. For the first time this monster has tasted bitter failure, while I survive to tell the story. This dragon will rear its ugly head in the not to distant future, but for now I am happy.