still writing

He sat at his desk. Pen in hand. Paper in front of him. He was writing lecture notes. Like he used to. Before he retired. It was a habit he couldn't break. Even though he didn't have to do it anymore. He just kept writing. For himself. For no one. The notes were detailed. Comprehensive. Like he was still teaching. Still trying to impart knowledge to his students. But there were no students. Just him. And his thoughts. And the paper. He wrote about literature. About history. About philosophy. The subjects he had taught for years. The subjects he loved. He didn't know why he was still writing. Maybe it was just to keep his mind sharp. Maybe it was just to keep himself occupied. He didn't know. All he knew was that he couldn't stop. He had to keep writing. For himself. For the sake of writing. The words flowed onto the page. Like they used to. When he was teaching. When he had a purpose. Now the purpose was just to write. To keep writing. Until the paper was full. Until the pen ran out of ink.