I sighed as I watched a raindrop race its kin down a half-opened car window, competing for the title of first drop to the bottom.

I was in my car, engine turned off in a parking lot at a local park, the only car present at that time in the morning. Fog dominated the view, the dew still fresh on the grass.

One of the drops touched bottom.

An author’s life is a depressing one.

I observed two birds perched on a branch in a tree, tweeting and chatting with one another before one took off, the other following soon after. I thought of the wife I never had, the children I would never have, and the distant dream of one day having a family becoming ever more distant.

An author’s life is a lonely one.

I felt my hand shake as I wrote, my eyes straining on the paper, before I again put down my pen and pressed my fingers onto my eyelids. My shoulders and back began to ache once more; I set down my work to replace my hot pack.

An author’s life is an elderly one.

I sighed once again, took a deep breath, and started the process of one of the few joys I allowed myself to have in life: writing.

Suddenly, energy filled my old body; thoughts and ideas began to take place of my depression; the thought of creating a new companion in the ink took my loneliness away.

And I began to write: “The child watched as a flock of birds lifted their wings and took flight into the clear, blue sky.”