I’m sitting at the dining table, watching the world go by outside our kitchen window. My soft gaze suggests I’m unbothered—but really, I’m hoping to catch a glimpse of creativity passing by.
The pen, gently resting between my fingers, is begging for attention, and I’m letting it dry out carelessly. Empty sheets of yellowed paper wait patiently beneath my hand, as if they know they’ll be soaked in ink sooner or later. I admire that kind of confidence—because all I can focus on is the rain.
The sky isn’t clouded. It’s just grey. Miles and miles of moodiness. It’s dull, it’s bleak, and I’ve chosen to hide away from it just so I can indulge in it. I’m aware of every raindrop landing in its place—seemingly the final stop. But don’t be fooled. It’s only a small part of the journey.
And maybe that’s the same with days like this. When nothing seems to move forward, when words don’t flow, and the world feels soggy and still—maybe that’s not the end. Maybe it’s just another stop along the way.
Quiet Paragraphs 
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