He stared at the blank pages in front of him. He knew he should be able to fill them. He had the words in his mind, the story unfolded before him. But when he looked down at the paper, nothing came.
He looked up and out over the lake. It was so calm here, this was his favorite place to go to write. It allowed him to escape all the distractions of the modern world. Here, he could immerse himself in the story he was telling, giving it life - making the story real.
Today, he had nothing. No words coming forth. He stared at the glassy calm of the lake. The way the still water reflected back the world reminded him of the empty page in front of him.
Sigh, he had never had trouble like this. He knew what was causing it, but refused to dwell on it. And so his mind remained blank. Finally able to stand it no longer, he put on his earphones. Maybe the music would cause the words to come forth.
He turned on his iPod, and her song came on first thing. He could feel the sadness lurking in the background, waiting for the opportunity to pounce and cause him distress. The song played on, paying no attention to his inner turmoil.
And with that, he understood the blank page. His inner turmoil was causing the words to stay inside. But to look at his face, you would see nothing but calm. There was no indication that he felt anything. No one knew the hell he lived through. And all because of a single question and the answer that followed.
He watched a loon beat its wings as it attempted to achieve flight. It brought him back to the present. And the blank page before him. He knew that he needed to write so many pages while he was here. Yet, still nothing came.
The iPod proceeded to another song. Just like life, it moved on without notice of our struggles. No one cared, no one bothered. Life just kept moving on.
He stared at the calm lake. He missed her so. That was his real problem. Why he couldn't write. She had left and wasn't coming back. And he knew it. This was a fact of life as real as the sun rising. Life was never going to be the same. And this sadden him beyond measure.
He looked down at the paper, his hand was flying across the paper. His story was spilling out of him. It wasn't the story he intended, but it was a story he needed to write. It was the story of his life.
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