The Constraint

Not a single idea on what to write reveals itself to me.  It is too dark.  Shadows within the emptiness of my mind jest at my lack of direction.  I find myself plagued by doubt and distractions.  With each attempted starting word penned, a shrieking voice scares the inked letters from the page; any progress immediately reset back to nonexistence.  Each failure adds to my agitation.  My breaking point draws near.  Whose voice is it?  And why does my hand obey their every wail of discontentment?  It is at this second query, recognition finally nestles into place like a tired body into the familiar shape of a worn recliner.  This indecision is my own doing.  A plague of my own making, just as it has always been.