Flow

She sat in the café, with her pen in her hand, waiting for inspiration to come her way.

It wasn’t.

She always felt inspired here. The atmosphere gave her a home feeling.

A home in the nature.

The walls were wooden.

There were no tables or chairs here. Only cushions. This made her feel close to the ground, to nature.

There were also trees in the corners, as well as some flowers around the trunk. Flowers of all colors. Her favorite was the daisies. She had always been fond of them, and here they were part of her inspiration.

The people that came here were also different. They were calmer, slower, less loud. More natural.

What else can a writer ask for, right? All sources of inspiration right here.

But something was wrong today.

She did not feel inspired. Not one word flowed onto her notebook. Not one!

But she waited. The inspiration had never failed her here. It would certainly come, right?

It did not. And she gave up.

She started walking randomly in the streets, searching for the inspiration.

Then she decided to head towards the riverside, with her notebook in her arm, still looking for inspiration.

The river looked at its bluest ever today.

She sat by it and watched the water flow.

It flowed and flowed and flowed, never ending. Never stopping.

Why could her inspiration not flow like that?

Or could it?

It could and it did.

It flowed just like the river.

Water drops became words.

Words became water drops.

 

You can find this short story and others here