The troubles of a wannabbe writer

He saw again the white space in front of him. A blank page. There he was, a veteran of myriads of personal conflagrations, survivor of uncountable encounters with fate, a citizen of nowhere and everywhere. Lots of tales to tell others, lots of stories to share. He hoped he could jump the gap between idleness and motion. He stared at an empty piece of paper the same way a pet dog looks its food bowl empty of chow. Indeed nobody was supposed to fill the void for him, but being immersed in the absurd scenario of an absolute lack of ideas to work with rendered him a most perplex creature. He stands up, walks in straight line towards... something. And there he sees it, a mirror. The prize he gets for this utmost stroll into the jungle of his own bedroom is the sight of his alter ego. He wants to say something in loud voice, but refrains himself afraid of his reflection reacting with a violent demand of shutting up. This thought is overwhelming, for he's ceased to be his sole friend on earth. Dizzy, he loses balance, and stretches his hand towards the wall. What color is the wall, anyway? Didn't it use to be pale yellow? Why does it look beige now? The sun rays are also yellow. Even if no timepiece was there to help show the precise time of the day at that moment, one could tell that the afternoon was almost over...