Should I start writing again? (Read intro)

As I sit here, I wait. I wait for that brilliant idea. That idea I get that pops into my thoughtful mind and spreads a smile across my face making me jump up in excitement. Then I would say something like 'I got it! I know what I'm going to write about!'

But things have changed this time. Instead of writing a story about that brilliant idea I'm just sitting, listening, thinking, and looking. Sitting here on top of my bench that's against a wall with a window right above it, listening to the rain crash into my window and the wind roaring by, thinking about what I shall write about next, and looking out that window watching the rain pour down seeing the raindrops it leaves behind on everything. With a notebook laying in my lap, opened to a clean random page blank with only the blue lines waiting to be written on, wishing the wordless empty sheet of paper was no longer a wordless empty sheet of paper.

The trees are dripping, like their crying, maybe wishing for the sunlight to return? Their tears are making puddles in the grass and dark skies responsible for this dull day.

As the rain dies down the clouds are swept out of the sky causing the sun to shine bring warmth to everything. A beautiful, six-colored rainbow joins the sky and my idea that I have been waiting for has arrived.