He couldn't write.
He couldn't write even in the middle of a deep still night or in the-almost-religious light of a Sunday morning.
He couldn't write when he was happy or when he was sad or when he was both.
He couldn't write in coffee shops or libraries or anywhere else for that matter. He couldn't write in his multi-coloured notebooks he had bought especially or even on the palm of his hand.
He couldn't write even while on a great journey by train.
He couldn't write even after he had intentionally made his personal life overly complex and hectic.
Metaphors were faraway cities to him, personifications were like distant relatives that no longer came to visit.
His pen, he knew, felt nothing but silent contempt for him.
And then one day the writer gave up being a writer and immediately the words flowed and flowed...