Writing while Procrastinating.

I am poor as a writer. I can't see a story or plot developing. I don't see connections clearly between words or phrases, that read better as stand alones. All i see is the light wind, heavier than a cool breeze, forcing trees to sway. From where I sit, staring out the bedroom window, the leaves seem to chatter and squeal with delight as the sensation of photosynthesis surges through their veins. I see the humming birds rest on the branches. Like shoulders bearing the burden of life, they sag slightly with the weight; as tiny as it may be.
     I pick my pen and begin to write. A prologue to writing begins.

No sooner did my wits adhere to the lifting of the sun. I shot a glance to the man, laying on his stomach beside me. I frowned and cursed, quietly to myself. Then quickly panning the room I sat up holding my head in my hands. The darkened room, which was succombing to the spreading light was bare, with a pine vaneered, two door wardrobe and a bedside table that didn't match. Clothes were thrown across the floor, not mine I was glad to see. The wall paper was shabby and too flowery to belong to the tattooed arm next to me, but who was I to judge. 
    I quietly crept out of bed, making sure not to wake the sleeping beast; i made my way for the door and suddenly made my exit. In a hallway I stood not sure where to go. Going straight then turning left, I saw an elevator. When it came I entered, I was on the fourth floor, so I pressed 'zero', thinking it would take me to ground level.
    When the elevator doors opened I stepped out ready to leave last nights memories, or lack of them, behind me. Instead I froze in sheer confusion. My eyes wide and my mouth slighlty open. I was standing on the same floor as when I entered the lift. As soon as realisation kicked in, the lift doors closed, leaving me alone in the ghostly hall of floor number four.

I let out a sigh and put down my pen. Then I stare out at the world again. The birds and bees and the butterflies, all competing with each other to see who is the better singer. The birds they tweet out a tune, whistling and chirping about the sky. The bee's hum a sweet nectar driven lullaby. The butterflies flap and flutter, whispering using their wings as drummers against the wind, as they chant about new life. I sigh, as if in tune with these flying acrobats, who twirl and swirl and whirl to great heights. Yet I am sitting staring, quietly and definately not writing.
Definately not writing.