Darkness surrounds me, but a dull ambient light shines through from outside. The air tastes stale and musty, reused, and it’s suffocating. There’s a way out somewhere, but I’m disoriented. Which way am I facing? Which way should I head?

I start writing, one letter at a time. Each pencil stroke echoes off the walls of my enclosure, returning muted and dull like an underwater scream. The letters form words, but they’re wrong, cacophonous and extraneous. I toss them aside and start anew. One step forward and two steps back.

There are some good words now, strong words. I place them in piles. Nouns and verbs directly in front and adjectives close to my right. To my left are punctuation marks. I keep them gathered in a bag, so not to lose the small bits. My thoughts come in small, broken chunks. Every comma and period will be needed. I place the adverbs behind me and try to forget them.

With the rules of grammar unfolded in front of me, I start arranging the words together, but they just don’t fit. My mind is a small allen wrench, unwieldy and painful to use. Through perseverance and patience, the first sentence finally reveals itself. Soon another has formed and another. I have to run to keep up, throwing word after word on the end, leaving behind a trail of characters, scenes, and ideas.

Mid-stride I hit a barrier and tumble to the ground. This path has reached the end, and the story can go no further. I can push my hand against the edge, and it will give to my force, but it won’t break. Trying to tear it open proves futile; it will not rip. My only choice is to pick up this trail of words, one by one, like a breadcrumb trail home, and start again.

Will I ever write my way out of this paper bag?