The Walk - Midnight

The Morning After

5:49am

My room's a mess, the desk is way too dirty and unwelcoming for me to sit and do anything. The coffee I made sitting next to me has gone cold and has started to rot, the lights are too bright, and my eyes are hurting. I've just been staring at my laptop screen for hours. And all I'm seeing is an empty doc labelled as 'DRAFTS'.

I wrote nothing. Again.

Wasted another night.

Again.

Sighing to myself, I close my laptop shut before taking my untouched mug to the sink. As I did the dishes my mind drifted back to the days of my youth.

I still vividly remember this one peculiar day at my university. I was still completing my undergrad, it was yet another one of those 9am classes, everyone was cold, an early reminder that winter was coming. I wasn't paying much attention in class, that is, until I heard my professor say, "Writing has become an everyday part of our lives." Words on paper has become a pleasing sensation for some, they just write for the sake of writing, or some simply just to brag.

People won't be surprised if you told them you write for a living, they will look down on you, it's not a job that pays unless you're exceptional, extraordinary, one in a million. Words mean the world to me. Each syllable uttered from one's lips and inked upon the pages of papers hold my heart in its shackles. And yet, it's still so insignificant in a word so damn big.

When it came to me, I thought what I wrote and wrote what I felt.

I feel deeply satisfied while pouring my heart out in mere pages of an empty book, I bring life to my characters by using such precise words and emotions that my readers either feel too much or feel too little, making those who resonate with me label me as a literate, a man in tune with his era, possessing a profound understanding of his craft. When in reality, it's not all that deep. It's all mind games in the end, trickery, pretending to be an intellectual, it's not difficult to sound smart as a writer and thus, you can easily fool your audience into believing that you're some kind of literature god. It's a bittersweet feeling, because the author knows what he's doing, and we all take advantage of our people. It's just another way to survive in a world driven by materialism. Writing, for all its depth and expression, becomes just another means to make money and survive.

There's one thing I've realised throughout the years though, sadness is like a magnet for poets. We possess a lens through which even the most resplendent sky can be transformed into verses of unimaginable sadness and melancholy. Perhaps Plato's insight holds true, poets exist in a dual detachment from reality. We might look at a lonely tree, thriving on a busy planet, and see it as a symbol of deep loneliness. It is an inherent part of our being, this innate capability to evoke sadness within others. We live in a world of dreams, where the boundaries of reality blur, and we find comfort in our imagination.

But, no matter how hard we try, it's a constant struggle. Words, even though they're our tools, always fall short of expressing how deep our feelings go. They're never enough, they're insufficient vessels tasked with bearing the weight of our profound longing and sorrow.
Yes, we poets can make anything sad. We can transform the sky into a lamentation, a tree into a symbol of longing, and the mundane into the profound. We are the dreamers, the weavers of emotions, forever reaching for the intangible. And even though our words may never be enough to fully capture the essence of our boundless sadness, we persist, for it is in our blood, to make people feel, to stir their hearts, and to remind them of the depth and complexity of their own existence. It is a gift that comes with a price, for as Plato once suggested, poets are twice as removed from reality.

In my world of passion I find comfort in writing for others. It's a deep love that runs through me, pushing me to express what they struggle to put into words. Through my poems and essays, I try to capture their emotions, fears, and dreams on paper. Seeing their gratitude and happiness, watching how my words transform them fills my heart with a warm glow, a fulfillment that goes beyond ordinary joys. Yet, within this boundless emotion exists a bittersweet truth. There are those who, in a rare display of honesty, acknowledge that these words are mine, crafted by my own hand and heart. They honor the authenticity, the raw vulnerability I've woven into the verses that I have gifted them.

However, the world is full of deception.

Others have tried to claim my words as their own, creating a false sense of superiority. It's a disheartening realization, a pain that settles deep within. My words, like feathers in the wind, get plucked and stolen by those who lack the creativity to create their own. They ignore the countless hours I spent perfecting those phrases and arranging syllables to evoke such wordings.

Seeing my creations under someone else's name leaves me feeling helpless. I long for justice, a way to expose these literary frauds. But my power is limited, restrained by the very essence of artistry. Once my words are set free, they roam freely in the human mind without restraint. I can't chase after them or protect them.

And so, I continue to write, for it is my purpose, my calling, regardless of the outcome. I pour my soul onto the pages, allowing the ink to carry the weight of my emotions, my experiences, and my understanding of the human condition. My love for writing remains unchanged, for it is in this act of creation that I find my voice, my sanctuary, and my connection to the world.

Though the world may harbor thieves who seek to claim my words as their own, I take solace in knowing that the true power lies within me. For no matter how they try to distort or diminish my craft, they can never steal the essence of my artistry, the depth of my emotions, or the profound impact it has on those who truly understand. And with that knowledge, I persevere, unwavering in my dedication to the written word, an unyielding force in a world that constantly tries to take it away.

It's currently 8:59am and I'm overthinking again.

It's yet another one of my writer's block.

Stop.

Take your meds and rest.

Please,

Arthur.