What do I write?

He who perceived himself as a creative genius snickered at the self-description and decided to write something clever. To follow in the footsteps of his dead mentors, he searched out a bottle of liquor, plucked some cola from the refrigerator, mixed the two together with two ice cubes and a splash of lime and padded over to his computer.
With each step over the cold vinyl floor, the ponderment of what to write flowed through his mind.
Although the greats, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Hemingway, Arthur Clark and the twisted Harlan Ellison did the majority of their work on black manual typewriters, the creative genius favored a laptop computer. This, after a disastrous relationship with his own typewriter which, again following the greats, wound up being pummeled to scrap with a sledge hammer after a particularly severe bout of malfunction. Upon realizing what he had done, he went electronic. There are, after all, some things that have become better over the years.
He settled into the gray discount computer chair with the worn armrests and perpetually creaky demeanor, and stared at the monitor flashing a screen saver of moving pictures he'd taken with a digital camera. An unposed shot of his niece smiling during a family celebration, a picture of Mt. Rainier during a blazing sunrise with hues of reds and flaming coppers melding with the blue of sky and tranquil Puget Sound. Other pictures rotated through uncaring if they were observed or not.
The genius wiggled the mouse, summoning the wall paper image of a yellow Ferrari 328 parked before a rectangular pond, a signal to his subconscious that this was a reward should he actually come up with something delivering a favorable amount of return. That or helicopter pilot lessons.
A sigh guided his work-weary physique to settle in the chair, leaving him feel as creaky as the springs and supports under the upholstery.
Following a generous swig from the drink, he waved his fingers over the keyboard, miming a conductor readying the orchestra for symphony.
Grinning at his movements, he moved the mouse to open the writing program, allowing his every fantasy and wish to be transferred to bytes and binary code. The program flashed on the screen and a fresh white page lay before him.
The electronic paper waiting patiently for words of...what? He pursed his lips, took another hit from the tumbler, admiring the spiced rum, pondered what to write.
"Okay, genius, come up with something creative to dazzle and entertain," he commanded.
A short chortle was the answer. His subconscious, as stubborn as ever, responded like a ten year-old with a secret, crossing its ethereal arms, smugly smiling and looking away.
"As if you could command me to do something," the subconscious said.
"Listen," the genius said in a most parental tone. "As you are me, and I am in control of myself, I do in fact order you to be clever and assist me."
"Ha!" the subconscious retorted raising its chin and rolling its eyes. "Make me."
The genius looked out the window at oak trees and sage brush covered hills trying to figure out a way to trick his subconscious. The major difficulty was the subconscious was aware of everything and not easily tricked.
He tapped the keyboard just light enough not to cause any letters to appear on the screen. The blank white screen mocked him as much as his subconscious. He tapped more. Tap tap tap tap tap. Rhythmically with one hand, then the other. The left didn't move as fast as the right. Ambidextrous, he wasn't.
He sighed again and took another swallow of the amber fluid, noting the glass was half-full. Or at this point, half-empty. And the cubes had melted. And there were fingerprints on it.
This wouldn't do for him. His subconscious laughed. Not behind his back, but pointed directly at him and said, "nothing to write? Yeah, well, something will come about if you're good to me." The subconscious tapped its toe, brought one hind to its chin and gazed skyward. With a flipping motion of its hand and looking to the upper right, it mused, "how about writing about falling into a crystal?"
"What?"
But before He who fancied himself as a genius could come up with an argument, he imagined shrinking, shrinking. The room growing larger as he first halved in size, then lost more and more mass. He jumped on his desk, ran next to the keyboard and stood on a rose quartz crystal to look at the monitor now towering above like a drive-in movie screen. He now stood as tall as a thimble.
Noting the gargantuan size of even common things, chair, desk, the warren of dust bunnies next to the file cabinet, he nodded. "Hmmm," he said raising one eyebrow. "You know, you might have something there. It'd be fun to become microscopic, then smaller still."
He dwindled to the size of a dust particle and saw monstrous mites slowly dining on flakes of skin, their fierce mandibles moving back and forth. The shrinking continued. He realized he now stood as tall as a blood cell, even dust looking alien and foreboding. The room much to large to be in focus. By now he stopped looking up and gazed at the surroundings. Simply amazing. A vast pink plane of crystal, long lines of geometric structure stretched out before him like an icy planet.
His diminutive stature kept reducing. Everything now appeared to be humming with energy. The crystal itself kept changing. The lines became as huge as freeway overpasses. Larger still and he slipped into a crack.
Falling and falling.
"It's so strange, " he said putting his arms out for balance. "I'm not sure I like this."
"Stop being such a pansy," his subconscious said. "You can't get hurt. You're too light to land hard. What's the matter with you?"
"Oh," he said sheepishly. "I knew that." He let the fall continue. The crevasse opened wider and wider. Soon, the patterns in the walls became more geometric. Like quilting in stone. Flashes darted everywhere. Light seemed to come from all directions. The sensation of falling passed. As if he were too small to be affected by gravity. But the crystal walls continued upward. Slower now. The patterns intrigued him very much and he studied them closer. He reached out and touched what were tiny balls intermixed with other balls. They tickled. The laughter felt good and made him lighter still. He stroked, swimming in the air, or between the air, towards the balls. They grew larger and were everywhere. Rotating and vibrating spheres of energy everywhere. They bumped him, each time giving him tingles of excitement. He realized what they were. "Of course," he chimed. "Molecules!" And he laughed.
Odd shapes took form inside the spheres. He snorted a giggle and went directly inside one of the orbs. Whirls of smaller balls flew around the nucleus like frantic planets. Some of the planets switched orbits from one set to another.
"Look!" he exclaimed like a little child to his subconscious. A sense of joy filled him. He felt so light. The orbiting balls grew in size. Whooshing sounds created a movie sense of surrealness. They flew all around him. Now, inside the center he saw tiny spheres, sending out energy frequencies like radios, each with its own glorious song.
"Whoa," he said putting an arm around his subconscious. "Is this something or what?"
They flew between the protons and neutrons, further and further until so many other particles became visible. Glowing in rainbow dazzling colors. They flew together, silent in absolute awe of the splendor of it all. Billions and trillions of bits of energy and trails flew everywhere. The energy and trails and particles passed through the voyagers as if there were not even there.
"I think those are photons," he said. "Basic forms of light that seem to be particles and waves at the same time. Look! See how they phase in and out? Like they're going to other dimensions and back. If they can, could we?"
"I think so," His subconscious said. "But that'll have to wait. Right now I think you should get going and write something."
"Good idea," he said to his subconscious, as it walked away with a cocky spring in its step. He waved. "Thanks."
"Yeah," his subconscious said without turning around. "I know. See you later."