Metaphor or perhaps novel's beginning?
Hours had gone by, and still my pen had not even touched the paper. Leaning back in my chair I wrestled over the letter I just couldn't write...fumbling my words in my head over beginnings, middles and ends. 'It shouldn't be this complicated; I don't have much to say', I thought to myself. Now that I think about it, I had absolutely nothing to say whatsoever, but I still felt as though I should. I glanced over at the envelope I had addressed from memory about thirty minutes ago, and still nothing came. I still couldn't believe I remembered the address.
...I honestly don't know where this came from.
...I honestly don't know where this came from.