Writers Block

The man stared absently at the glass of orange juice he'd poured. Tapped his pen gently against his pad as if that would dislodge the blockage he felt in his mind, and allow his proverbial creative juices to flow. A few minutes of this went by, before he began to get frustrated. He irritatedly flicked his pen across the untidy room onto his small, single bed, and walked to the window, various disjointed words and ideas floating in a cloud in his head. He flung open the heavy window and breathed deeply, inhaling the warm, summer air. The odours of the grass of the nearby park, and the exhaust of the long snakes of traffic crawling along the packed Manhattan roads mingled, it was a smell he was used to. One he knew well. He drew his gaze to the street, a storey below him. The joggers, single-mindedly pounding the pavement, and panting as they did. The children, excitedly explaining the events of their day to their exhausted looking mothers. The birds, swooping low, into the trees sparsely placed along the grey sidewalk. The man sighed sadly, mentally deciding he'd try again another day. He turned and stepped on a leaf of paper and immediately lost his balance. His legs swung out as his head smacked the graciously soft, yet exposed mattress. He groaned as he felt a headrush, but stopped, perplexedly at what followed. An unfamiliar feeling of clarity overtook his mind. He absent-mindedly grabbed his pen from the bed, and bounded into his desk chair, scribbling line after line of text, as words and ideas burst like fireworks behind his eyes.