Back from my break and with what seems to be a case of ¨writer´s block¨ (which is a positive diagnosis since it implies I am a ¨writer¨).  

This might be a good excuse for my brief absence, but I suspect something else is going on.  

Minutes later, eager to write, I stretch my hand over to where my stack of papers should be, but it comes back empty, like one of those plush toy arcade machines that swallow all your change while you maneuver a claw from outside the toy bin to no avail.  Except, the machine is more promising than my empty desk since it has ¨stuff¨ in it.  

When this mindless act is over, I can see there is no stack of papers, no post-it notes everywhere, no consumed cups of coffee that provide an olfactory kick of over-sweetened caffeine.  I panic because I cannot find my mess (as if I didn´t put it away myself).  

In an untimely manner, existential questions arise making me second guess my previous self assessment telling I am a highly adaptable being.  Am I creature of habit or habitat?  

It is imperative that I get out of this sterile environment, yet it is ridiculous to recreate a mess.  No?