He sits down to write.

He sits down to write.


His wife asks him what’s wrong. “Nothing’s wrong.” She doesn’t believe him. Neither does he.


He looks at the page and broods. What was that scene he thought of before? Who was that man? What did he say?


The dog needs to be fed. The dishes need to be washed. Coffee needs to be brewed. The day needs to start.


His wife asks him what’s wrong. “Nothing.”


The words don’t come out the way he wants them too. They’re too jangled, or jambled, or something with a ‘J’. He forgot how to write.


Who was that man in the overcoat? It was all gray with shades of green. He said something to him about his writing, but then it was me who did all the talking. It wasn’t a dream, or a nightmare, or real, or fake. It was a scene, but of what he’s unsure.


Work is around the corner. His wife’s trying to talk to him. Dinner needs to be made. Tasks aplenty.


When he was young he wrote a book. A novel. It wasn’t bad. It wasn’t great, but it wasn’t bad. He put in the time, a year plus. Where was that time now? It’s gone. Lost in a wave of responsibility and milestones. He watches the wave, hoping it’ll crash on the shore and release all that precious time onto the beach. Where were his words when he needed them?


It’s another Monday. No time for frills.


Another school shooting. Another threat from North Korea. Another foolish political decision. Another innocent man killed. Another heated debate. Another sports match. Another award show. Another trending topic. Another. Another. Another.


Where were his words? Where was his time? He was supposed to become a better writer with age. Now all he has is age.


He sits down to write. And this is all he can come up with.

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