A short story

It was a quiet Thursday afternoon. An unassuming writer sat at his table with a pen in the hand and few blank pages in front of him. There was an open window before him with white curtains which let just the right amount of light inside his room. The window gave him a clear view of the street. Beside him was a book rack with three compartments- two of those filled with his favourite books and one which had books written by him. And above these were his numerous awards neatly stacked. He liked sitting before the window, get a view of the world outside, and this had always been an inspiration for him to write. He put on his black, thick framed spectacles and looked down at the sheet, just when a fly sat on it. He made a gesture to shoo it away from the hand he was holding his pen with. The fly was back on the sheet of paper once again. He stared at the fly this time and a sense of wonder filled him as he watched its swift yet delicate movements, and the shadow promptly following it everywhere it moved. A moment so captivating was ruined when the fly flew away. All that was now there were its invisible footprints on the paper and the awe he experienced in this insignificant event. Restlessness crawled in and he was left with a longing for that experience to have lasted a moment more. “And this is how I want my readers to feel when they read my books.” he said, got up and pushed away the chair making a creaking noise. He put his glasses down on the table and said, “I’m not there yet."