Thursday, February 8

she slumped back in her chair and exhaled noisily out her nose. she looked at the screen, then at the keyboard and back at the screen again. nothing came to her, she wanted to write, an urging desire to communicate filled her mind. wisps of words and sentences and stories drifted through her conscience, but none were enough to make much meaning. desperately she mentally grabbed one and started typing. the light from the t.v. flickered across the faces of the watching audience, their eyes glowing with the reflection of the screen. but not everyone present were paying attention to the film, there were more important matters at hand. she gripped her head in her hands, swaying slightly. her fingernails pressed into her scalp, she closed her eyes and started humming to hopefully help her clam down. this isn't the way life is meant to be. paint smeared across the surface of the canvas, skillfully enough not to mother droplets or globules that would grow up to spoil the black back ground. if there was any markings, they were meant to be there, precision was the artist's closest friend and most acclaimed quality. he thought nothing would stop him from finishing his latest masterpiece. but glancing out the window and down on the street proved to make him stumble. weaving amongst the crowd was a shining maiden, full of colour, bursting with beauty and he was gone. she pushed her way inside his head and occupied his dreams and day-dreams and filled his imagination, brightening up his mind with factitious conversations and filling it with splatters of emotion. it was then that precision left him. "if only i was taller" she muttered, pulling a chair over to the book shelf. She stepped up and grabbed the book she was after, exciting a colony of dust that had been relaxing there for the past four years. particles tickled her nostrils and she could feel the sneeze coming. her eyes closed, she tried to grab onto the bookshelf but caught a small book in her hand. the sneeze threw her balance and she tumbled to the floor, the desired book in one and the small book in the other of her hands. grateful that she hadn't managed to grasp the bookcase as it would have most likely fallen on top of her she looked at the small book. but the name of the book wouldn't come to the writer, it fell through her hands like sand in an hourglass. and so now out of words and out of time she is left with ramblings on a page that may grow up to be stories of their own. or may not. she slumped back in her chair again and sighed, her fingers tapping on the keyboard, but not actually pressing down the keys but still making a satisfying noise that was quite soothing indeed.


Post a Comment

Links to this post:

Create a Link

<< Home