After days of turmoil and cotton brain and nothing coming to fruition, I decide that what I need is to immerse myself into the intricacies and eccentricities of humans spinning the stories of their life.
I place my book upon the table. For a few moments I celebrate its emptiness, and then I start to write. One after another the words tumble from my imagination, like untidy clothes strewn on the floor waiting to be gathered and sorted.
The phone pings and I pause, taking stock. As I scratch out line after line I can almost feel the page’s disappointment at my feeble efforts, its pristine surface now ruined.
The coffee machine huffs in the background, but the real critic is the astute plant staring right at me, ridiculing every word that I write.


In response to Bikurgurl’s 100 Word Wednesday: Week 91 challenge, based on a photo by Toa Heftiba

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