My heart is a lonely hunter

Getting your fingers to move over the keyboard is the hardest part.
The digital clock next to me, tells me it's 1:00 AM.
How I feel right now is frustrated and unproductive.
I can't write.
I sit in front a borrowed desktop computer screen and can't write.
My screenplay has become a fucking standstill, and so have many of my other projects.
Nothing is moving. Even the 23 cats surrounding me are asleep.

INT: INSIDE HOME OFFICE-NIGHT

Mike sits in font of a computer, listening to Washed Out's Within and Without album. A half empty glass of lemonade sits on the desk to his left. The sound of dogs barking outside is heard, while the moonlight slips through the cracks of his blinds.

FADE OUT:

THE END

Even writing about something is nothing I guess.
This what happens when the world around you moves, while you sit still.
I close my eyes and picture myself as a montage in a television series. It's one of those montages that you see where everything surrounds the main character in sped up motion, while the main character sits still.
The sun rises
The sun sets.
The sun does this over and over again and our main character sits still, while the world showers, and eats, and moves rubber tires over cracked pavement, our main character sits still and does nothing.
Everything else moves and breathes. Our main character, he sits there and waits for his fingers to move.
This is what happens when you loose the person you love. This is what happens when the person you love looses you and finds someone else.

What I'm having trouble with, the things that still pulls at my dermis and crawls under my skin, is simple. It's the simple fact that I'm still in love with Ms. River.
This is the simple fact that keeps me up past 1 AM.
The past two months have been one cliche, layered on top of cliche on top of cliche. The past two months have been one walking advertisement. Billboard after billboard, reminding me of fuck up after fuck up, forgiveness after being forgave for. I'm reminded that I was the one doing all the fucking up, and she was the one doing all the forgiving. I was always expecting her to take me back, and she was expecting me to change. One person can only keep meeting expectations so many times before the expectations become extraordinary.

The digital clock on my screen tells me it's a quarter to two. Right now my fingers are a lonely hunter, pecking and picking on plastic square keys, with hopes that someday, Ms. River will notice me again.
I tell myself that's why I do this. I know she can't possibly respond to my E-mails, phone calls or text messages. The only thing I can hope to have happen is that the one thing that brought us together, will somehow bring us together again.