The writer says; It's cold outside. The writer's pen is now a stranger to her Creator, the ink is dry, and his scrolls are void of words. Everything seems to have been said, all that's left are repetition of what has been and will be. While the world merry and feast, the writer's hut is smeared with frozen ice and no heat to melt it.
While the writer slept, his pen went for a trip to learn of the world afar. He sits and wait, praying that his pen finds it's way home. The songs in the street has grown cold, melodies are now shadows in his world, and all that's bestowed on him are crowded voices that fills his head.
Image generated using Gemini AI
In his lone hut he sits, empty of words. But in his weariness, he pen down a word or two, not because they found their way to him but because he hope they'd light up his cold pen and keep his clumsy mind free of pets- They call it the writer's block, but it was the writer's plight. They haunted his very existence and stole from him words promised to his kind.
But he was not giving in, he was not letting it take a medal over him. Though words were lost, and his ink dry, he did not allow his sight veiled of stories to tell. He sat patiently, waiting for his ink to bleed once again. Until then, he remained the lone writer sitting in his hut.