Author: bubble101 PM
Just a ramble about a writer's curse I produced whilst struck with writer's block. Readers and especially reviewers are well loved. Sorry for any formatting issues which I seem to be having alot of!Rated: Fiction K+ - English - Drama - Words: 397 - Reviews: 2 - Published: 04-14-12 - Status: Complete - id: 3013620
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
Raintrickles down his window, distorting the view of London chaos as he remains bent , tormented over his ink-splattered sheet. This man enjoys the somber weather, for it keeps beggars from begging and callers from calling. There is just silence. Silence, that is, aside from the sound of watery drops splashing off the roof and back up to the grey, cloudy sky. This is his distraction. This is his curse. He hears everything that no one dares to notice, making it near impossible to put a coherent thought down onto his paper. While most notice the rain, he notices the individual drops and how each one has a different tone; from a gentle pianissimo to a screaming fortissimo. His mind traces the history of each watery pearl as it falls above him, driving him a baby step toward madness with each plunk. On which drop should he write? On which sound? From which point of view? No one's mind should process this much just as no one's brain should work this hard.
Finally, the artist chooses to free himself from these restraints. He chooses to tackle it all. This man meticulously sculpts words from letters and phrases from words, shaping them ever so perfectly whilst still pounding them out at a speed which no one else can ever hope to process. There is so much to cover, so he rambles on and on about everything from the dripping of his candle's wax to the roughly etched in form of his once lover's name on the desk. Oh how refreshing it feels to him to write like this, to release every thought and emotion in the most unorganized and raw manner possible. But he is also aware of the madness this causes. He finds himself so absorbed in his mindless scrawling that he feels no need to ever leave his parchment. His desire for human contact is nonexistent just as his sense of time has depleted, but he simply can not drop his pen.
As the sun pulls itself lazily out of the clouds, drying up the once-infuriating drops of rain, the genius stops to think. Exhausted, half-starved, and adjacent to a large stack of freshly-scripted papers, he decides it is time to meet humanity once again. But even as he wanders to the kitchen to eat, his pen calls.