Back to my favorite place, the park. I went there to start my weekend with what I love best, writing.
For the first couple of minutes no ideas came to me, so I just sat there, on the edge of the fountain, just glaring around at nothing in particular.
Some more minutes went by, and my mind was still as empty as before.
Eventually I started to write something just so I could get started, hoping that better themes would come to me as time passed.
"Lovely day, isn't it?", said the voice of a stranger next to me.
"A bit hot for me, but pretty good.", I answered unconsciously, not even lifting my head from the notebook.
"What are you writing there?"
"Just a short story."
"Oh okay... But why are you writing it?", it slammed on me like a hammer.
"Well I... I like writing...", I didn't know what to say, I've never really thought about it.
"If you say so... I'll leave you to it then, good day!"
"Good day to you too!"
Why do I actually write...
I have no idea...
It's not just because I like it, not just because it helps me cope with my feelings, not for others to see...
Yet I can't go on without it...