The fetters of a writer

Weightless. The only word which vaguely gripped his strange sensation.
It was more than just the sense of floating. It was as if he had been
suspended by his own insufficiancy. He felt anger. That was the only thing
which could describe this feeling of suspention. Unlike the tremulous
unrest which seems to conspire with normal rage, he felt benighted by its elusiveness.
It was as if all had frozen around him and all sound had relinquished. Leaving
only him to confront his idiocy. No rationalles. No escaping this time. It
had been perfect. Every word arranged with ubiquitous percision. Several times
he had proofread and accessed its meaning, its intricate weaves through fear
and darkness. Nothing was out of place. How could he have let this happen!
"These god damned computers" He murmurred through the undertows of his consciousness.
He looked at the blank notepad file, once filled with the spoils from from an inner war
only god understood, seething with an imbuliant wrath. The power must have shorted.
"my life's work! It's gone." Suddenly the weightlessness became ripened with an
unfathomable weight. Listless he sat heartbroken. For years he had published time
and time again only to be met with resistance and misunderstanding. No one liked
his work. Not since the accident. His wife, jessika, found in the bath with her
wrists torn open. No explination, no motive, no warning. Just gone. It had happened
now once again. Another ineffable tragedy which no words could comfort. Another
mysterious act of god. Another promise left empty by the fowl gestures of circumstance.
Two hours passed as he sat. sulking in his berievement. Swimming in his tragedy.
Finally it lessened allowing him a chance to move his neck. He looked around the
dark room squinting his eyes into focus from the empty, white screen. The walls
were blank. Molded near the ceiling. Nothing but a desk, a bed, and a toilet.
THe sacrifice of a writer, he thought. He smiled, smugly turned back to the screen
and began to type. Even as certain failure dogged his every step. He typed in hope
that one day all his suffering might be exalted to the realms of sainthood. That
through all of his failure god might have a purpose for his gift. the gift of observance.