Words flowed through his fingers in an interminable rivulet. His very heart seemed to detach from his body as it became embedded into the sheet of paper he was bent over. With the passing of each second and the steady sound of his moving hand gliding over the smooth surface he felt a flood of feelings wash over him; a tide of unquenchable emotions almost drowning him in the force with which they seemed to pour out. Time continued to tick on, yet still he continued, liberating himself from the grasp of all that had held him back for so long.
He felt a light-headedness he had never experienced before. It somehow felt as though a huge burden was being lifted off his chest,freeing him at last. So this was how it felt to be a writer, he mused to himself. How he reeled in fascination and awe as his hand seemed to connect with his mind and flow over the paper in a swift unbreakable flux.
The words poured forth and with each new imprint they made he felt as though he were brushed over by a warm caress, leaving him light and unburdened.
He smiled at himself and knew he had finally found the peace he had been in search of. At last he knew he was in a world where he belonged…