Blank.

The vacant, white plains of the paper set out before him against the mahogany of his desk; his mind felt just as empty and barren as the untouched paper appeared. Pale and slender fingers curved around the sleek, black column of the pen; poised to clash with the flawless spread of the single sheet, etch into it whatever torrent of words swathed his eager mind and mark its surface with a fine weave of sentences regarding whatever category his interest favoured.

But it had yet to even meet with his chosen canvas; and his oddly deadened creativity had yet to accumulate a suitable topic, a sentence, a word.

The pen hesitates further still.

Auburn shaded eyes have not been lead astray, not once, from this tormenting emptiness cast in front of his now rigid posture. Neither the flourish of light that illuminates the whole of his current room in its wake, nor the thunder raging within the blackened skies like a scream from the heavens themselves manages to pry him from the shell of his rapidly decreasing concentration. Or at least, not yet it hasn't.

He has to admit. His thoughts have come to an abrupt and irksome standstill. There was little that cut at his nerves, but the complete paucity of thoughts to spur one of his greatest passions was more than enough to provoke his petulance. It was one of the largest, though albeit most trivial, occurrences that could contort his usually placid temperament into a far less pleasant outlook.

His chest heaves with a sigh as his fingers place the pen down once again; rendered incapable of completing the task it was originally set to do, the task it's wielder was originally set to do. Said fingers exchange their prior grip on his pen in order to pinch the bridge of his nose, sharp brown eyes concealed by closing lids and obscured by fine white strands of his hair falling about his young and handsome face. A frown creases his delicate features as a mild anger silently brews in the back of his mind. It has not been the best of days where his words are concerned. Well, his week, to be exact.

The chair he is rigidly seated in scrapes across the floor as he pushes back and rises to his feet, gripping the edge of his desk as he finally begins to free himself from the entrapping snares of his struggling mind; though it does not release him willingly, clutching at him like a mordant chill despite his efforts to rid himself of such. The inevitable sense of defeat that frequently accompanies a failure of any sort became present, creating a distraction of sorts allowing his thoughts to stray from their previous focus-yet in turn, they whisked him away into the centre of an equally, if not more so, unpleasant subject. It cannot be helped. The choking hindrance of his thoughts and words was not unavoidable. If only that was the case.

His breath expels from him in another rather disappointed sigh, quieter than the previous, and the rich russet hues reveal themselves once more to the world as his eyelids lift. His eyes collide with no other audience than that of the inanimate objects neatly organised on his desk; save for the few scattered sheets stained with previous unsuccessful attempts at birthing a new creation into reality through the use of pen and paper.

He does not wish to dwell on his remarkably awful streak of failure for the time being.

The incessant beat of the collision of rain against the panes of his windows brings about an alleviating sonata, and in turn a more than welcomed diversion. His attention is drawn away from the imprisonment of battling for words in vain.

Steady soundless steps trace their way to the window, keen eyes peering out over the darkened skies, cascading rain and moody atmosphere of the dampened world beyond the glass. He acknowledged the vague, faint reflection the material provided, the thoughts of opposite dimensions crossed his otherwise emptied mind and in turn igniting a small blaze of interest. Would it have its own hell? Would it have its own God? Would it be opposite to all that currently existed or exactly as it was here? As a mirror will show a duplicated image of what was in front of it, mimicking everything that occurred within its twin dimension, though perhaps twisted in some manner?

Thought-provoking ideas. Perhaps the solution to his apparently halted train of thought had been, quite literally, right in front of him.

The corners of his lips pull back into a smile; the young man allows himself to linger where he stands, collecting his newly blossomed thoughts together and eyeing the repetitive downpour of heaven's tears for a few further fleeting moments. And once satisfied with what he has managed to unearth to feed his imagination, he will return to his most occupied place, scattering his thoughts across a barren sheet to immortalize them in raven and white; ink and paper.