The Writer.

Peaces of instrument broken across the quarters of the room. Lying inside is a man, hair, long covering his twisted, sweaty face, head in his hands pulsating around his brow. He lifts his head once more and howls out one single cry.
A cry so full of emotion no person could put into words the wish that it carries with it,  a wish that people could see truly what lays within instead of relying on appearance and language.
How fickle the minds of others that rely on another to relate life.

His instruments, his hands calloused with ink that wears away every fraction of his mind.
The letters, sentences he wishes to achieve are lodged deep within a brain that refuses to be opened.
But prevail he must.
Breathing deeply he struggles to get up.

Trying endlessly to grab snatches of thoughts that want a life that can give him the passion needed to aspire.
To inspire others to prevail with him, through the instances of worldly notions.
To create a protagonist that would capture hearts, turn pages and make a love more dear to a person than even a true friend.

Luminous figures surround him, woman after woman love and loose him as he staggers into fantasy after fantasy. He realises that pure love is something hard to come by and yet he refuses its embrace, as he makes for the door that is never there, the door that death promotes with much diligence. Yet he prevents himself that one easy yet difficult way out as his own determination tips the balance. Finally an idea.
 A simple idea, one that brilliance can for once create a modesty too sudden to ignore.

That the protagonist should not be the best of everyone, the one that everyone seeks to love, seeks to befriend,not the perfect and perfectly flawed person, but the writer himself. The writer who is hated, envied, yet adored. Someone that can make a woman or a man commit themselves to a challenge a spectrum of literature.
For even the most perfect of person with the most perfect of flaws is just a fantasy as no one is that person. Everyone is the hero and villain, no one can be of one of either.

The man lifted himself up back onto his worn leather beacon of a chair, set his past work aside and began to write. Not of the future or even of the life that he wished he could have had, but of his own. His own life, with real people, people who have a story worth telling. With not always a happy ending, and with not always with the bad men ending in horrible ways but thriving as we all know that they do.

Yet this is what life is, and that is harder to write down than to fantasise about one that is imaginary.


A.M.Dale 27/12/11