This happened every single time.He stared at the blank piece of paper. It was taunting him. He sharpened his pencil again. He traced the edges of the paper again. He looked out the window. The rain was falling again. Softly. Looking back at the paper, he wondered why he ever tried to write. He put the pencil to the paper, thinking the action would prompt the thought. But it just left a small mark. He smudged it with his finger. If he could just write something. He tried to think about what he was feeling. Nothing. He tried to think about what he was thinking. Nothing. He thought of himself. What was he? Restless. Potential. Restrained. Self-limiting. That is what he was: restless potential restrained by himself. Was there a way forward? He wanted to do something but so much more wanted to avoid doing the wrong thing.

He wrote two words, "Fail forward."