The five sat around in the living room. It was late in the evening, the air was humid and with a will of its own stubbornly resisted the flow of words. What little was spoken drowned in the sea of quiet that was engulfing the room. The lady of the house opened the windows to lure the sound of a pin drop. The two kids, unused to the stillness, screamed in their minds. The father fretted anxiously, ready to clutch at any word that would spill out. Silence sat there, uninvited.
I know I promised on posting regularly here a few days back. And if I am honest to myself I have tried to but god it is so difficult to think of original things to write. The more I read the more I realise the lack of originality in my thoughts and that is paralyzing. But which is worse – being a copy of a copy of a copy or indulging in inertia?