He could not remember the last time he sat there. Where had the time gone? To start again now would be both a blessing and a curse. To sit beneath this light, pen in hand, the man could not make his mind move his hand. The man had glimpses of the last time; a title, a dedication, even the epilogue, but what was that story? Too much time has passed. Time to leave this space again.
He continued to sit, trying to convince himself it was useless. There were no ideas in his head, no words on the tip of his tongue, no writing at his fingertips. Still he sat, unable to put the pen back in the holder. This was his future, his dream, his lifeline. How could he let it get away like it did?
Finally he decides to put the tip of the pen to the top of the paper. He began feeling his hand move and he could see letters forming from the ink. He would continue like this untill his hand gave up.
The man didn’t know how much time had passed or even what he was doing back at his desk. He rubbed his eyes and looked down at the paper in front of him. Written in cursive, as neatly as his college professor had written, were the words….