Let's see, on one surface - and this object is versatile it doesn't know up from down or right from left- on that first observable surface play images of your daily concerns; the appointments you need to catch, the chores you need to attend to, the dreaded visit to the dentists, the degenerates on the road. They all play out on this surface, like a movie projector. Every time you turn away from the moving picture, it changes lights and color and forces you to look back at it again. Your jaw open wide as if by surgical claws, the dentist smiling ominously as he moves in to drill….
… on the next rectangular face, there stands your to-do list at work. Your career aspirations. The long queue of disgruntled clients. The visage of your unpleasant colleague stares at you from one corner, while the monotony of the three hours meeting plays hop-scotch on a grid roughly drawn by chalk on the other.
(Let's skip the next three faces. Lots of unsavory stuff in there.)
There's nothing but her on the last surface. She stands there, fully clothed and utterly unperturbed. The cuboid here seems to change structure; it's gelatinous, rubbery and its surfaces gain a three-dimensional vividness. The curves get moist and slippery … and the smell, an olfactory wonder. You try to avert your gaze, to shield your eyes, plug your ears and hold your breath. No avail. The holographic cocoon engulfs you like fate. It's not even an object or a part of an object anymore. This part of the block is the anti-matter. It's the black hole of your energies. If a writer's block is an idea block, as some suggest, then how could you write anything but the ideas that this image stirs in your mind? How could you fight a thought so compelling, so riveting and so damn dominant?
The answer is simple: you just can't.
You embrace it and move on.