Entering His Mind

The man took a careful sip of his hot tea and sat down to write. But predictably nothing came out. Try as he might he could not think of a single thing to write. Not that there wasn't a multitude of people, events and emotions he could write about, he just couldn't think of what to write.

There was all the new people he had met recently: the rock star, who could sprawl like no other man, and still retain the majesty of a king; the bassist, the man who could turn a phrase so eloquent you'd think Shakespeare was never born; and the cowboy, who always laughed the hardest at people's jokes.

There were the people he had known a while, the people he lived with but had only recently started to develop a true bond with. Most notably the fighter, the man with an accent so thick anything he said sounded like his mouth was full of oat meal (which it regularly was); and the hair, the woman with the curls and curves you'd like to run your wheels around all night long, the only one to really push his buttons in a good while.

All in their own way fascinating people who could, and should be the spawn off many a random, incontextual scene sprung from the unholy union of autobiography and imagination. But nothing entered his mind. And he thought to himself:

"What is this? Have I lost it? It, that intangible something that we dub creativity. Why can't I think of anything to write any more. Did I squander all my bitterness through all those years of self pity and self loathing? Did I use up all the beauty and heart ache on the innocent one? Did I bestow all my thoughtfulness on the unseen and the fiend? Is that it? Was that it?"

The man tried to take a long gulp of tepid tea from his empty cup and thought to himself again, as he glanced at the words before him:

"No that can't have been it. There must be more!"