Gemotions

He sat in the park, the leaves rustling softly in the breeze. A small notebook lay open on his lap, a pen resting beside it. He had spent the morning working on his next piece. His article was now live. Yet not with his name. His article, a piece of his heart and soul, was now credited to another writer. He felt the air fill his lungs.

He closed his eyes for a moment, and listened to the sounds of nature. He opened them, and slowly, deliberately, picked up the pen. He began to write, letting the words flow freely. He wrote of the trees, the wind, and everything else.

He continued to write, without the slightest hurry, until the sun began to set.