Writing.

Sometimes I really, reaaally want to write. I have a million ideas. I need to write them down. I run around, searching for paper, while imaginary characters scream in my ear, requiring my attention.
I'm so excited, my hands are shaking. The characters are now a crowd, in a big dark room, all shouting at me, asking me to pick them, instead of the other one.
I smile at myself, and tell them that if they're lucky, I might pick a few.
I find the pen and run to sit down. I quickly take lid off the pen with my teeth in anticipation, as I notice the characters move. They all run and hide behind closed curtains. Bastards. They were teasing me, promising a beautiful, one of a kind story, but now they're hiding, like kids, giggling, and smiling to each other.
I will never find them.
I run to the curtains and try to tear them off, but there is now a door behind the curtains, and I can hear hurried steps, running away from it. I open the door, and find a concrete wall.

Sometimes I start to wonder, maybe I'm just like those blissfully unaware X-Factor contestants, who sing completely off-key, but are banging their chests, declaring their talent. Maybe I'm one of those.