Writers Block

Meaninglessness, uselessness, boredom, self-hatred. All things I practise in my Writers Block.
Spending countless hours writing wishing I could write, yet doing nothing about it.
Taking pictures, 'cause it doesn't take words. Not words of importance, not meaningless words, nothing to get going, but the right configuration and a click, it's like a toy. A toy for the child. The child, who's afraid of bugs. Who's wanting to be alone and just cry like he used to. Who's in the attic where he belongs. Who's in a writers block when it comes to songs, but it perfectly capable of writing an essay or two. Who's listening to pubescent rock music and enjoying every moment of it, that was until somebody mentioned that there was something wrong in that.
So he looks out the window, as he always does, pretending to be so deep, when really those moments are the one's where he is the least poetic. So he chats briefly with an old 'fling' as he would put it (it really wasn't). So he writes a text in third person and tries to be clever by pointing it out and/or breaking the fourth wall, and/or using the phrasing 'and/or', like the geek he is.
What he is afraid to mention, is that he has spent way too long doing nothing. Not writing a single song (a good one that is). Not writing a single poem. Not Even Fucking Drawing A Fucking Doodle. All he can do all day, is strive for others success, reading books, listening to music, old as new, reading magazines, solving sudokus (fucking sudokus, come on!), watching videos on Youtube, good as bad, caring for others, but never himself.
All in all, right now, he is the personification of a 'normal' person.
A normal person... A normal person... "Damn, fuck, damn. It's fucking true isn't it? I am normal!" He says as he looks around, even though he knows that there are no-one around.
Right now Alexander is sitting in his bedroom cursing to himself, wondering whether what he just wrote for his blog really was so piercingly true as he fears. He has, as he also mentions in the rather long post on his blog, been doing nothing for so long, that it is a real concern for him. So Alexander, lightly sweaty, either from the heat in his room or from the horrifying realization of being less than special, walks down and peers for slightly too long in the mirror, because he has seen people do that in movies, "So fuck it, anything that helps", as he so delightfully puts it.
It doesn't help, of course it doesn't help, he knew that, he's not one of those foolish people that actually believe in things from movies. Well unless it was a documentary of course, 'those are always right!' end quote.

There is not really a point in this story about the late-teenaging boy Alexander. 'Cause Alexander has writers block, and he can't muster the brain power to think of a point, and for that he apologizes..