With the lights off, darkness seemed to creep into the house.  Shadows slinked in through the corners of open windows, the sun starting to make its daily departure behind cloud and horizon.  Crickets hidden in the grass let out a rhythmic chorus of rising and falling drones.  The sound seemed to crescendo when the breeze wanted to carry it away.  

Amidst the sounds and the breeze sat a man at a desk, his body hunched over a yellow notepad, his hand clutching a pen, his eyes squinting.  The paper was blank, save for the faint blue lines that cut across the pages.  The man let a few moments pass, allowing his heart to beat softly in his chest.  His hand moved to the left hand side of the page, beginning to move the pen closer to the paper.  A moment of dead air passed and the man unfurled his back.  The blank notepad continued to rest silently on the desk.  He shook his head.  

Never before had writing been so taxing, so painful.  Prior to this moment, everything he had written was of its own mind.  His past works had simply used him as a vessel to get from imagination to tangibility.  There was a difference now, the man thought as he reached his free hand up to his face, squeezing the bridge of his nose.  With a sigh, the man let his eyes wander around the room.  They made their way to the window, where he saw the shadows reach into his home.  He saw the green trees sway in the breeze, their leaves rustle against each other.  His ears heard the buzzing of the crickets; his skin felt the tender touch of the cool breeze as it lightly danced over him.  

Taking another look at the paper, the blank page seemingly staring back at him, the man set his pen down and stood from his desk, pushing his chair back.  He walked for the door and opened it, his hand grasping the cold metal, twisting the knob and pulling gently.  The door opened with a quiet creak, revealing the wooden realm outside of the house.  Just as gently as he opened the door, the man closed it as well.  The sounds were more prominent outside than they were in the house, which was expected.  

A deep breath allowed the fresh forest air to rush into his lungs.  He pursed his lips and exhaled through his nose, trying to attach his stress to the escaping air.  Blinking slowly, the man watched the forest, seeing the thick brown trees associate with each other as if they were a silent community, interconnected in the skies and firmly linked through the earth.  The forest seemed to beckon him, asking him to enter.  It seemed to want to trade with him; spend time with nature for a look into your soul, the forest appeared to say.  The man looked at his feet, mulling over the option, turned towards the house to ponder the writing one last time, and then nodded in imaginary agreement.

Over soft dirt and broken twigs, the man made his journey.  The sun seemed to stay in the sky longer than it should have.  From here, the chorus of the crickets was faint, almost inaudible, and the stress of writing was no longer a worry.  Occasionally, the man would press his hand against the rigid, uneven bark of a tree to balance himself.  The trees felt warm to the touch, accepting.  As the journey had taken the man uphill, he could see the sunlight glowing through the foliage canopy, gentle beams of orange light easing past the greens and browns of the forest.  

The man lost his sense of time, unaware of how long he had traveled through the forest.  The sun managed to stay with him, however; it seemed to guide him to the forest hill’s peak.  From the summit, a clearing that gave way to a cliff side, there was almost nothing to see but more forest.  A bustling metropolis was visible in the distance, but the hill was too far removed to hear the mechanical noises of the city.  Nature’s sweet voice filled the air in their stead.  Wind rolled easily through the trees; insects and birds found a quiet, unpredictable harmony.  Sitting down, the man gazed quietly at the sky in all directions.  The waning sun still held onto the sky, creating a collage of blues and warm tangerines.  

A flock of birds glided overhead.  The man did not bother to recognize what kind of bird they were, instead watching them with a creased mouth.  When they passed out of sight, the man tilted his head towards the sun, still eyeing the direction they had flown.  “Why is it that you are built for such things that I am not?  How can you continue to fly?  How do I continue to fall?”  The man sighed, his mind now revolving around the pen that was still lying on the paper.  The blank paper, nonetheless.  Although the birds had gone from sight, they still flew in his memory.  Winged entities that cut through air, defying gravity; he was filled with envy.  Another breeze whispered through his hair.  He looked at the cliff that was mere feet from him.  The green blossoms of trees rested at the base of it, swaying with the undulations of the world.  His gaze grew more and more despondent, his limbs felt heavier, and his world grew as still as the pen on the desk.  

The sun had not moved an inch, it seemed.  Making a slow trail up to the sky, the man once again found comfort in the sun-lit sky.  A gloomy shape loomed in the distance -- a bulbous storm cloud, ash gray and electric.  It did not make sense, the man thought.  The cliff and the trees, the sun and the clouds.  Nothing came together like it should have.  Another bird passed overhead, this one dark as night.  It headed towards the radiant sky.  With a squint, the man smiled.  He nodded and tried to remember everything about this moment.  The sun, the sky, the heat lightning of the coming storm, the waving trees, everything.  

He stood, patting the dirt off his jeans.  One last look at the sun affirmed the notion that it would stay long enough to guide him back home.  Another smile.  Through the forest the man went, the same route as he had arrived.  The beams of light that he had noticed on his way were still prevalent on his return home.  The air smelled of rain, but that was alright.  

By the time the storm clouds sprinkled rain on the forest, the man was already back inside, sitting at his desk, lightly holding his pen.  He was writing now.  Neither a smile on his face nor a straightened posture showed his elation, but he was writing.