"Do you write?"
The phone bleeped. A simple question burst into countless thoughts, of a given up dream, of a fizzled out resolution and of a defeated passion. Dejected, she replied that it had to come naturally. The phone buzzed again "to you!" it read. For someone sitting a thousand miles away, her writing appeals, and it mattered to her. That person mattered a lot more. Suddenly, she felt injected with positivity. The otherwise dull day suddenly seemed a little brighter.
She was no Shakespeare. Going to work was unavoidable. So she did. What does positivity do to a person needing it the most? She felt dusty, dry, lifeless earth and the message; a sky pregnant with April showers. A little sprinkling of positivity made the crowded bus a little more bearable. A dash of it faded out the screams and shouts of the street vendors and all she could hear was chirping of birds and the rustling leaves.
She could feel the wind in her hair and the blasting heat of the sun dimmed just for her. Her mind raced a thousand miles away from the balmy summer afternoon and she fluttered to a place only she had known. "The world could wait", she thought, "for a little while more". It was her time after a long and tiring wait.
Everything that met her eye seemed like a poem waiting to be penned. The seemingly insignificant faces floating by had a story to tell. If only they could, she though. She flew past them. She knew what she loved. The ink, the blank page and the indescribable euphoria.