Creation

John peeks out of the window. Looking at the leaves on the evergreen trees beside the sidewalk on Lennon Street. A leaf falls. It glides back and forth with the wind as the curved fresh leaf slowly falls flat into the ground. Another tree, this one without leaves is shaking. The wind is slight, not so much that the movement of the bare tree is obvious but anyone looking at the tree would notice. John noticed.

He lets out a cough. He'd been sitting by the window sill for so long that he hadn't realised it had been nearly half an hour. He let out another grunt to escape the slight discomfort of his dry throat. He takes a sip of his black coffee. Bitter. Bland. Black. Americano. It's gotten colder. It's not the burning heat that once was, the liquid had turned into a pleasant warmth that reverberated throughout John's chest. His body shuddered at the aftertaste - maybe he'd put in just an ounce more coffee than he had wanted. Or, maybe he had been missing a kind of warmth that everyone's body needs. The kind of warmth that makes you leave your house. The kind of warmth that makes you feel content.

John let out a big sigh, shuffling and shaking his legs. His mind started wandering - his hands started fidgeting. His eyes were watching every little movement or - lack of movement. He felt a sudden onset of this restlessness, and wondered what his body was trying to tell him. It felt like he needed something. Necessity, Longing, Urge, Yearn. Whatever word you wanted to use. His hands imagined the spotty texture of the camera. His voice demanding to travel to a microphone. His mind wandering through the infinite possibilities of the future. Every part of him need do this. Every part of him needed art. Every part of him needed to create. Something.