Drabble 1

A light scratching was audible to the writer, but no one else would be able to hear that sound. It was too soft, so this particular rhythm was reserved for those who made it. The rhythm of his own writing was what he could name as his greatest inspiration, it only got easier as it went along. The sound of the pencil in his ears set the words for him in his brain, and he wrote these down with his eyes closed. It wasn't tricky, not in the slightest, he just had to keep his hand along the line he was using. Words blew out like spring breezes and shone like the sun that gave them their warmth and light, or whatever other fanciful phrase that one might like to use to describe the creation of poetry, whether it had anything to do with the words on the page or not. In his mind, that was only the appropriate thing, because if you couldn't describe the process behind art beautifully, then you couldn't catch the meaning of being an artist for yourself.