He was young, but he felt like his mind was an old well- that the bucket to fetch his water was broken and he was condemned now to mumble parched words at his reflection from above. The world as well had turned into a black and white landscape, and the brilliant hues of emerald and golden-rod had dulled to shades of gray.
So he sought the pallet of his old world at the wells of others. First at the wells of children, who had not even dug a deep enough hole yet to discover enough water to fill a well. They seemed cheerful enough though, because their parents would bring them what they needed for the time being.
” Child,” he said. (This was ironic, because he wasn’t that much of an adult himself.)”What do I write about? What should I do to inspire myself to dig deeper?”
The child looked at him and said, “Why write now, when you can have fun? There is plenty of time to do that later.”
” I have no more time to wait.”
The child looked at him with solemn eyes. ” My mother told me that you always have time unless you waste it.”