Interests
It was a dusty night. The sky was filled with haze as particles flew in from burning forests around the region. A solitary writer sat on his desk, penning down phrases and random thoughts. It was hot and dry, but the smoky atmosphere created an illusion of mist, one much desired. It embodied a thrilling feel of mystery. The shroud itself was a physical representation of the writer's mind, his thoughts fuzzy, judgement clouded. He was waiting, planning, scheming for the next big thing that would spiral him to success.
What? What would it be?
He pondered, reaching far into the depths of his mind. Seeking a novelty in heights and avenues that till now, he had left unexplored. There would be no stone or rock unturned in this quest. A quest for innovation.
There was a certain beauty in the creation of stories. The world of books, libraries and quiet corners of your home where you could cuddle up and enjoy a tale or two. The reader himself or herself was free, at complete liberty to imagine scenarios, people, places, events. It was a wondrous feeling, sometimes even unexplainable through its medium of words.
The writer focused his train of thoughts. His wandering off the main highway had provided him with fragments and pieces of ideas. He just had to piece them together, one by one, like a giant jigsaw puzzle. The end product, subject to taste and interests,would be savored by the readers themselves.
He stared out of the window, and a smile played along his lips. It was time to begin.
