For today when he sat down in a perfect sitting with dim yellow lights, cool breeze and some drizzling, inspiration did not come to him. He fought hard, for the nib to scribble some words on the once blank sheet, now marked with desperation. After a couple of trials some lines appeared but they didn’t make any sense. A mediocre gibberish. Multiple topics of wonderful poetry passed his head, but none of them good enough. Nothing moved him today. He has been like this since the past few days. The writer in him was suffocating and dying a painful death. It felt like that.
He desperately had to fall in love and get his heart broken again.
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