Awake now I rub my eyes open. Looking out the window, fog surrounded the cabin I stayed in. Whether or not it was night or day is a different question. All I know now is that I feel well-rested, but, hungry.

I go to the fridge, opening it, the light forced my eyes open. Butter, jam and I had bread in the cupboard. Jam sandwich it is. My brain felt foggy, as though the outside mirrored me in some way. I had given myself 6 months here to write a Novel. I've only written one or two pages and it's been 4 months. Such a place of quiet yet I couldn't focus. I've noticed the quieter my surroundings are, the louder and messier my thoughts are. It's as though the city comforted me from myself and put me in a delusion.

Now, I am here, all by myself. Making up for a lost time, working hard on not just a story but for myself. The greatest battle is the battle of the self.

I must find a way to write. Inspiration needs to come from somewhere, but where? I doubt ill find anything here.

Unless...

Unless I find it from myself. My experience from the past? Or my fears of the future?

If I find inspiration from myself then I'll always have the ability to write.

What a great idea!