The winter morning mist

The blue smoke filled the room like the winter morning mist. What an unoriginal line he had just written. It hangs in the sky motionless. Another one. He could go on describing it, use his limited vocabulary, make a few paragraphs, draw a margin and fair it down in his notebook. Another second rate creation. However he chose to arrange his lines, they would not convey significance. They were more a outcome of boredom than a genuine interest, a meaningless chore to fill the two hours after dinner and to tire his mind enough for sleep. Never had he been consumed with an insurmountable urge, a moment of heightened passion when the pen etches on paper, an extension of the thought that erupts in the brain. Such sudden urges were confined to writers who sat on his table, mocking at his incompetence. Which angel blessed them? How could they write such beautiful lines, lines that carry a world in their words, lines that expose innermost secrets, lines that gave birth to the next one? Lines that resembled none in his notebook. He scratched his head and saw the blue smoke with a fresh perspective. It turned into ink and blotted everything he had written so far.