He sat down at his desk and started getting ready to write. He dipped his quill into the thick black ink ever so lightly. He examined his canvas of paper in front of him and fidgeted in his seat until he was comfortable. With his head bent low and his glasses arranged on his face, he put his quill to paper and wrote. He wrote about the flow of light coming from a dim lamp on his desk. About the shimmering glazed mahogany desk he wrote on. The painting mounted on his wall which showed beauty and strength between every stroke. His writing became more concentrated and focused as he went on, filling up page after page. He wrote about the stack of books lying on his bedside table, the lumps of clothes strewn across the floor. His words were full of color, even though they were written in black and white. They were filled with life’s ambitions and the best memories. In between the lines and in dark corners of the pages, he filled with his sorrow and lost times. His cursive writing grew bigger and bigger, darker and darker as he took two or three dips of the quill in ink to match his new rhythm. The boldest of words that filled the emptiness of pages came from the growing voice in him as he found the meanings of words and the silent messages in between the cracks of his floorboards. His room became bigger and wider as it transformed into a beach with a long strip of sand. Full of rolling waves and scuttling crabs as his mind wandered… Palm trees blowing in the breeze and fish swimming with the current of the ocean. A shack was seen stranded in the sand. A shack complete with rotting wood and glassless windows. It was once a home. A home that glowed with happiness of those who lived in it. The wood was once thick and strong, laden with dreams. It once contained the sounds of a golden dog and a singing boy. He stopped to take breath, leaned back in his chair and examined his work with a satisfied grunt. It was a start but he had a long way to go. With a click he switched off his light and trudged to bed.