The sound of traffic overpowers my senses.  The clamor being made by the rushing vehicles are clouding my mind.  The stench of gasoline corrupts all useful thoughts.  I sit at an old, weathered picnic table.  Its wood is stained by blotches of peeling red paint.  The table is covered with carvings made by past users.  The rusty bolts, that hold the tattered table together, constantly distract me.  No matter how hard I try, inspiration alludes me.  I look around desperately.  I need to write about something- anything.  I'm eagerly searching for something beautiful.  There are flowers scattered the park in violent bursts of color.  Numerous oak trees leaves are dispersed throughout my line of sight.  Looking behind me, there are young children playing on an old, yellow swing set.  On any other day I would be able to fill an entire notebook with short stories about the lively scenery.  Today everything is off balance.  Each passing moment adds a new layer of frustration.  The vibrant colors produced by the flowers repulse me, giving me a headache.  The trees look like they are dying.  The children won't stop screaming.  The car fumes fill my lungs once more as my grasp for inspiration ends in failure.  In a last resort measure, my eyes scan the other side of the road.  An elderly man, using a walker, is moving slowly down the side walk.  I am flooded with ideas.  I know what to write about now.  I am bombarded by questions of what his life is like.  How it differs from when he was my age.  Does he have family?  What did he do for work?  Was he rich or poor?  Was he happy?  Does he have regrets?  I quickly move my pencil to the paper.

"Hey?" I look up.  It was my mother.  "You ready to go?" She inquires.  With a sigh, I glance down at the paper.  I watch as my words float into the polluted air. 

"Yeah, let's go."  I'll just write tomorrow.