He picked up his pen and began to write.
He thought, in his thoughts he worded his sentences, he added similes and metaphors, phrases and idioms flowed, in his thoughts he read the prose, rewording it, rephrasing it, in his thoughts he had a cynic’s mindset, a reviewer’s acumen to spot flaws, he was his worst critic. He scrambled for pen and paper, sat at the table and nothing! All his thoughts trickled away. The pen was poised over the paper, hanging in mid-air, but the paper remained blank. His mind was void, not even a baseless rambling.
He had words, but what would he do without thoughts? It was not that he lacked thoughts, he had been writing for over a year, but all that had been just incoherent mumblings, giving a proper structure to his ramblings was a fiendish task. He wrote on anything and everything, the canvas resembled an amalgam of haphazard brush strokes by many amateurs, instead of the one masterpiece that was eluding him.
Words deserted him in a surfeit of thoughts. He had a hundred and twenty thoughts, but words were none. The more he thought, the less he wrote. Enough, he said; and stopped thinking. He shut the door, and peeped out at every thought that knocked, refusing entry to all but one. The cacophony subsided, and a soulful rendering filled the room.
He penned the words – He picked up his pen and began to write.