I sit at the wooden table. The sheet in front of me with the feather aside. Picking up the feather and fiddling with it I try to find my words. This shouldn't be that hard. Just be straight to the point and formal. I try to convince myself that it is just a reply I have to send for my work since I'm unable to be present for some time.
Slowly I write the letter while trying to find the right words. The sun happily shines through the glass on the paper.
As I finish it properly, I feel the little weight get off my shoulders.
I sit at the wooden table. The sheet in front of me with a feather aside. I hesitate before picking the feather up, accidentally staining it. I doubt if I should write or not. I really wish I had someone to talk to. Maybe I should have returned to the village. I regret leaving but end up writing anyway.
Quickly I write the letter while crying. I try to calm down. The melancholy of the dark clouds hide the moonlight from my sight. As I finish it with stains, I feel a huge weight on my shoulders.
That's when I knew, instead of crying I had something to do. Or as others would say bluntly; deal with your problem.
