The Writer

He tapped his pencil with growing aggression. It had been three months since he had written anything worth mention, and he was growing incredibly irksome.

The cursor on the laptop screen blinked against a blank white surface of a hopeless attempt at creativity. He tossed the pencil (a useless tool when one does their writing on a computer) into his messenger bag and folded the screen of the laptop down with an overly dramatic sigh. He looked over beside the overstuffed green arm chair at the now cold cup of red tea that he had abandoned while he had attempted to write again.

He also hadn't realized that the music had suddenly become much louder and he bobbed his head without even realizing he was doing so. He sipped at the now room temperature brew and observed his surroundings for some hint of mild literary inspiration. He drifted almost immediately towards the large windows facing the street outside. On the opposite side of the street there was another coffee shop much like the one he was seated in.

He thought of it as absurd--two rivaling coffee businesses side by side, yet still somehow thriving. He wondered why he had never ventured into the other coffee shop, why he always chose this over the two, and never braved a new experience. It wasn't as if the one he resided in was doing anything for the creative portion of his brain.

The End

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