|I Write, Therefore I Am
Author: Lucinaris PM
Why do you write? Random story, yes. XDRated: Fiction K+ - English - Words: 1,222 - Published: 07-24-07 - Status: Complete - id: 2394477
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
I hear the door open behind me. After it closes with a little click, the next thing I hear are your footsteps, tapping slowly on the floorboards. Thankfully for both of us, they do not creak. But there is another constant sound we both hear – another kind of tapping, except that this kind is done on a computer keyboard.
"What are you doing?" you ask me, even though the answer seems painfully obvious. I sit in front of the computer, my face bathing in its pale glow, my ears covered by headphones, and my fingers moving as though of their own accord from one key to another. Every now and then I stop to check some notes and a few notebooks lying around, check my player and see what song is playing, or just take a sip from the cup of steaming hot chocolate that sits beside the open jar of chocolate chip cookies on my desk, which is just beside the computer table. It is as if I have my own world, which I pretty much do.
But even with my headphones on, I manage to hear you. I stop typing, and swivel around in my chair to face you, pulling my headphones off. You stand there uncertainly, as though unsure of what to do.
"Writing. Why?" I answer your question, and then throw another question back at you. I reach out behind me and pick up a notebook, and skim its contents, but I don't return to the computer…yet.
"You always seem to be writing every time I drop by," you reply, shrugging and throwing up your hands. "Not that it's a bad thing…"
I smile at you and quip, "If writing were a bad thing, then I deserve a life sentence. Lock me up and throw away the key." I set my notebook aside, beside my hot chocolate and cookies. I take the jar and hold it out to you, but you shake your head. Instead, you pull up the chair from my desk and plop down into it casually. After all, only God knows how many times you've done it before.
"But why do you write? I mean, like I said, it's not bad or anything; I'm just curious." I hear your feet doing a little jig on the floor, as though they are also itching to know the answer as you are.
I raise an eyebrow before answering, "Well…it's a complicated story, really."
"I've got time."
"Nah, I won't be boring you with some long-winded fairy tale that goes something like, 'Once upon a time, I got bored, picked up a pen and paper, and realized, "ZOMG I CAN WRITE YAY.", the end' or something of that sort. I'll just tell you one thing. I write, therefore I am."
"I write, therefore I am."
You scratch your head and your eyes widen, and you shift around quite a bit in your seat. "I don't get it."
"I can't explain it, to be perfectly honest," I say, taking out the black gel pen that was sitting behind my right ear and getting entangled with my hair, which is the same color as my pen. "I can't exactly say how it started, or why, or when, but writing has always been a part of my life. I mean, I don't just write for the sake of grades, like in reports, or reaction papers, or anything like that. I write to express myself. I write to deliver a message. I write to vent out my feelings. I write…it's like an integral piece in the puzzle of my being and soul. Okay, so maybe I'm sounding really cheesy right now…"
"No, you're not," you reassure me. "I understand…it's like something that's been in your system for a long time, if not forever, and if you try to tear it out of there, it's like ripping one of your limbs off?"
"Pretty much," I answer, glancing down at my red beaded slippers. "So…what brings you here?"
You fold your arms over the chair's backrest and prop your chin up on them. "I just wanted to see how you were doing. And make sure you don't work too hard. I mean, sure, you love writing, but you don't want to get tired of it, right? I bet you'd sometimes like to do other things besides that, no?"
With a nod, I say, "Of course…I also like to read, surf the Internet, play games, watch all sorts of shows, hang out with you guys and my family…"
"What are you working on right now?"
"Just another random story…whenever an idea pops into my head, I have this urge to write it down somewhere, not only because I might forget it, but I might lose its essence, what makes it a good idea…"
"I see." It is your turn to nod. "I can't stay long, I'm afraid…I also have things to do. We're all busy these days, huh?"
"Yeah," I agree. "It was nice of you to drop by. You might want to get going; we'll see each other tomorrow anyway." I stand up from my seat, and you do the same, and we share an embrace. Laying my head on your shoulders, I add, "Thank you…I'm so sorry if I'm busy right now; I want to submit this story and see what others think of it."
Your hand moves up and down my back as you reassure me. "Don't worry; like I said, we're all busy. See you tomorrow." I hug you tighter, and you do the same.
After you break away from me, the last thing you give me before walking out the door is a cheery wave, and a cheerier smile, a wordless message with many meanings, all of which I appreciate.
As your footsteps behind the door die away, I walk towards the full-length mirror behind me and look at my reflection, which stares right back at me the exact same way, with wide, dark brown eyes that mirror mine. For a moment, I am silent, lost in my own thoughts about our short yet somehow meaningful conversation. I fidget a bit, tucking a loose strand behind my ear, tugging at my shirt…
"I write, therefore I am," I suddenly say to my reflection, which mouths my words as I pronounce them loud and clear.
Another pause passes. I find myself smiling, and my doppelganger imitates me, as always.
And that's when I return to my computer, where my notebooks and papers are scattered around my computer, which glows softly as a screensaver comes on, and where the aroma of hot chocolate tempts me.
With another smile, I plop back into my chair, take another sip of my drink, and stuff a cookie into my mouth, letting its taste unfold and the chocolate chips melt on my tongue. I deactivate the screensaver with a single click of my mouse, take up my headphones again, and resume typing.
I write, therefore I am.
Heh, this is my first time writing in this kind of perspective. XD Yes. Mwaha.