Scribbles

The Writer

Sat aggressively at his desk.

Frustratingly scribbling away at pieces of parchment.

Failure after failure began filling the room as he would soon crumple up the parchment he was attacking to proceed to the next.

Writer: 'This is simply unacceptable.'

He crumpled up another piece.

Writer: 'Have I lost my ability to create? Have I forgotten how to transcribe images dancing within my head onto the paper in such a manor that is intriguing?'

He began to feel the grip of hot anger wrap around his lungs and proceed to squeeze.

Making his breath short, forced, and complicated,

His head begun to rush with a fire that flowed like a river in his mind.

Crashing from one side of his head, to the other, he battled the currents of his own mind in hopes he could create a work of art.

It became too much.

He slammed his hands onto his desk,

Writer: 'Damn this passion of mine that is entertainment in such a form that is dominated by so few! How can I compete if there is already so many successes? Are there new ideas? No! No I say each creation has been derived from the success of another... Nothing is original anymore...'

The lightest, almost quietest of knocks came at the door,

The writer almost missed it.

He realized he was breathing heavy and began to regain himself to a presentable manner.

After a few moments, he uttered,

Writer: 'Come in. Forgive me if I was too much of a ruckus, I was simpl-'

It was no one else but his wife,

Wife: 'Simply losing yourself once again husband? Do not fear the children did not hear you and are resting quite well tonight.'

The writer began recalling his actions and began feeling embarrassed at his behavior.

Writer: 'My love... I feel as if my head refuses to allow me to create. All I've ever wanted is to be an artist of literature. I feel as if my accomplishments are of minor note. When will we ever be well off and never have to worry once more?'

The writers wife paced slowly to her husband as he monologued about his struggles.

Listening intently she stood behind him.

When he finished, she said,

Wife: 'A clouded mind leads too a misguided hand.'

This struck the writer in a peculiar way. Yet it seemed to begin to spark something in his mind.

The writers wife took note of the change of mood on the air. She laid a kiss on the writers head.

She began slowly pacing back for the door.

Wife: 'True inspiration comes from the heart anyways, not the mind.'

She gently closed the door behind her to leave her husband to his thoughts.

To which he grabbed the crumpled piece of paper off the floor,

Smoothed it out,

And continued his work.