Chapter 1: A Blank Page on an Autumn's Morning

A blank page. Vincent continued to look at that blank page. It was an intense look. A deep, bitter, resentful look. This was a normal day, an ordinary day. This was one more day lost. One more missed opportunity. This was a day like most of his days were.

Vincent, the poser. Vincent, the dreamer. Vincent, who called himself a writer.

He kept looking at that blank page knowing fully well that it would remain, yet again, unchanged, unexplored, untouched, virgin.    

            
He would rather defile it. Transform her, the page, into something entirely his. This, however, wouldn't happen today. It would probably never happen at all, he thought as he looked at the wordless page.

            
There was a time when things were different. There was a time when Vincent used to write. But that was before. Now he spent hour after hour looking at blank sheets. Feeling impotent. This was his life now.

            

He paid the bill.

Another pointless day in a meaningless existence. One second in the life of an insect. Another lost battle in a lost war or even worse, in a war with no meaning. He headed home. Ashamed, sullen, defeated. Step by step on the wet concrete floor he blended into the sleepwalking crowd of the metropolis. It was the old men wondering aimlessly, it was the working bees buzzing all the way to work, it was the sound of angry, impatient horns, it was the children walking towards indoctrination, it was the vagabonds walking off their misery. It was a cold autumn's morning when Vincent got home, feeling like a loser once again.