Perhaps write something fictional? A juxtaposition of two or more things.
I read once that writers block describes the experience of a person trying something better than they are capable of writing. It’s not that they cannot write at all, merely that the words which can flow through them an onto the page are not as good as they would like them to be.
This might be one of the most helpful things I have ever read, after all, if I am ever stuck I can simply lower my expectations of myself until I am unstuck. Ironically, once I am unstick there is a reasonable chance I find myself writing something worthwhile after all.
As he brushed a long hair
These were at least some of the thoughts occupying Paul’s mind as he brushed a long hair out of his eye and back over his head. As he returned his gaze to the screen, it fell back to where it had been, tickling the thin skin around his temple and moving about so that he twitched and spasmed involuntarily as his body sought to protect his eyes from his own hair.
With a gentle sinking despair Paul reminded himself that it was he who selected the hairdresser, a cheerful and slightly rotund lady who had the manner of a woman who was very beautiful when she was younger and who hasn’t forgotten how it felt to be desired by almost all men, it was also he who selected the cut, short back and sides, keep the length on top please, and it was still he who styled it every morning, pushing the long curly hair back across his forehead and pressing it down with wax to keep it out of the way.
Blinking and trying to ignore the errant strands he tried to re-read what he had just written, but the words glossed over and he found himself imagining what Pauline might have been like in her prime. The shape of her body before she settled down with John, her sensible second husband, who had loved her since they were at school together. The children weren’t Johns, although the youngest looked like him. Her aquiline nose leading many to think she was.
A man named after part of a car
No, the children belonged to Axel, yes, axel. A man named after part of a car, and to John’s own father, Michael. That John had married Pauline after that came out so publicly was a sure sign both of how hopelessly in love with Pauline he was and how little he valued himself. He couldn’t see it, but John’s careful consistent manner and broad shoulders caught the wandering eye of many women, but he had only ever had eyes for Pauline.
Paul smiled, somehow John was breathlessly happy. He ran past Paul’s window around 6.15 every morning, steady footfalls pressuring Paul into starting his own day. Paul wonderered, fingers still hovering over the keys rather than pressing them down where they might register a sentence or two on the screen, how many people who lived in the area started their day, or picked up the pace of what they were doing because of John’s metronomic footsteps passing by their windows, followed by his steady breathing.