Monday, June 10, 2013

Writing Depressed

A pen’s tip stabs the notebook in front of him. He’s frustrated (far too frustrated). “Why?” he asks. “Why?” he asks again.
Three holes on the page create a triangle of fury. Depression amounts as he continues to stare. But, it’s fury that he can use! Yes, his eyes become wide with excitement. Soon, he’s scribbling down a sentence: “Her eyes captivate; her breath chills.”
For minutes more he stares. Then comes the tears. Watery tears make streaks upon his cheeks prior to the loud thump of the nefarious notebook hitting the wall to his right.
It’s tricked him into thinking again. He’s no defense, and he knows it. All words that the book seems to swallow simply lacking the satisfying meaning that’d once satiated him before. “I’m done,” he states. “I’m fucking done.” He waits.
The solid tick tock of a wall clock fills his ears. Midnight has come, but he can’t stay grounded any longer. So, the notebook laughs on the floor as he heads off toward the door, never to return.

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