The Writer

A Short Story

“I just wish I could cry,” the writer muttered.

But he couldn’t cry. He hadn’t cried since he was a little boy, and he wouldn’t cry now, as it seemed. It is funny how life plays games with us every now and then. The writer was hurt once more, and there was nothing he could do about it. Sometimes, all you can do is go through it. Sometimes you have got to feel the pain, so as to overcome it. Acceptance is the key to rejection. But what about betrayal? What happens when somebody betrays you?

The writer didn’t know. Or maybe he did, but he couldn’t remember how the previous times were for him. It’s been years since he had any relationships with other people, and now that he had failed once more, he felt as if he had forgotten. He knew, but he had forgotten.

His writing skills had also betrayed him. He couldn’t write. It took him a day or so, to step into that phase, were he curses, punches, and kicks at things inside his home, but he couldn’t write. You all know the story… Writing relieves you, it sets you free from the pain and sadness, and all that stuff… But what if the pain doesn’t let you write? What if it kills your creativity?

“I just don’t understand… Why didn’t I see this coming?” The writer asked himself.

It was a question he couldn’t answer, and nobody could. People are strange sometimes. They make up their minds in ways we cannot understand. And now the writer had a question to ask her: Why? What was it that went wrong?

In a little while, that familiar feeling appeared: Loneliness. Being left alone was something the writer could easily recognize. How did a relationship which had lasted more than a year, end in only two days? She was his friend, and much more than that, and now…

He reached again that same conclusion. His writings; his writings were all he had. He had a talent, he knew he did, and that was what made him who he was. There was nothing else.

Now it seemed like a curse. You are cursed to be a writer, you are cursed to be alone, you are cursed to suffer, to be sensitive, to be afraid...

Yes, there was nothing else.

The writer walked to the desk, and pulled the type-writer in front of him. It’s me and you, he thought. And we will always be together. You will never leave me, and I will never leave you. You are my curse, and my blessing. You are what I am. You are me.

And so he wrote.

Reviews

[Marie]

This is good. It says so much about writers; their blasted hopes and their frustrations. In the end the writing is all that's left. It says a lot about pain too. It has to be felt in order to be overcome.