Wednesday, November 23, 2005

The writer

The writer sits at his desk, smoking. The swirls of cigarette smoke rise and create pictures and patterns in the stale air of his bedroom. The writer is not a beautiful man. His hair is matted and oily. His fingers stained and crooked. His long neck ends in a narrow chin, his cheeks are pockmarked and hollow. Deep worried furrows line his beady eyes

The writer is not an athletic man. His skinny legs are hairless and white. His rachitic chests heaves as he concentrates. Long pale arms sprout from his sleeveless shirt.

The writer sits in his bedroom and writes. His room is a small room, cramped and scarcely furnished. The writer does not notice how spartan his room is, all he cares about are his pen and the endless reams of white paper which he consumes.

The writer sits and dreams, putting to paper all he thinks. His beautiful supple fingers hold his pen with love and with it he strokes the brilliant white paper. With passion he fills reams with tidy swirling letters, endless and powerful. His eyes light up with a quasi religious gleam and he carries on writing. His memories, his dreams, his fears fill the empty pages and start to live.

The writer is not an average person. Insanity drenches his spirit in waves. The horror and beauty of the world touch him, stroking his brain with icy fingers. His demons scream, his angels sing, his monsters howl and yet by writing he chains them up and makes them less real.

The writer is not a good looking man, the writer is not an athletic man, the writer is not an average man, the writer is not a happy man. And yet the writer writes and what he writes is as beautiful and strong as any man.


Blogger tombrad said...

Nice piece of writing

5:56 pm  
Blogger Wonko the Sad Clown said...

Thankyou. I quite like it as well. :)

1:44 pm  

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