The Writer: Chapter 11

That same night, I woke up from a dream. The moon’s empty glare trickled down walls, shadows quivered around me.

The dream was still scratching its way out of my brain when I sat at my desk and began to type on my computer, my fingers fueled by a vision much more vivid than reality itself. After all, between what’s real and what’s not is but a thin line.

Samuel Taylor Coleridge and his Kublai Khan.

I closed my eyes, and there it was. Glued to the back of my eyelids, a forest trapped by a blistering wind, a man walking down a dirt road, holding a guitar. I typed with my eyes still closed.

The world around me was nothing and I was nothing.

Robert Louis Stevenson and his Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.

I opened my eyes, eager to read the words that I wrote. But there were no words there, on that computer screen. No. My dream was there, on that screen. As surreal as it seems, the dream was there, held captive by mere words, by a cage of punctuation marks.

I had been nothing and I became something.

Mary Shelley and her Frankenstein.

I had created something that wasn’t there before I sat down at that desk. Something that didn’t use to exist.

“And the earth was without form, and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep. And the Spirit of God moved upon the face of the waters.”  

And the Writer scribbled on a red post it, “Let there be light; and there was light.”

It’s something I can’t use words to describe. Funny. That writing some words on a piece of paper or on a computer is something that can’t be described. It can only be felt by those who take the plunge, because, you see, not everyone can become a writer. I just know that you have to be afraid to live your life in order to become one. Soon you realize that your life is becoming this incredible plot and every person you meet a character. That’s when the world inside your head feels more real than the one outside your window, when a tragedy is nothing more than intriguing information. That’s when you can’t cry anymore because nothing around you feels real. Your entire life becomes a huge stash of stories and novels.

And you die one chapter at a time.

You either write or live. And every writer is bound to find that out someday.

Whenever I sat down at my desk to write, there were no laws to bind me, there was nothing the world could threaten me with. Cigarette after cigarette, bottle after bottle of Jack Daniels until my fingers felt numb. I used to walk around my small room, with my hands behind my back, trying to understand life, death, and everything in between. Sometimes I wrote so much that I couldn’t feel my legs anymore. Sometimes my story kept me awake through the night, turning me into a prisoner of a world where I was the only God my characters knew.

When the sun rose from his grave, that’s when I felt as if a quivering, bizarre aura had engulfed all the objects inside my apartment. My skin didn’t seem to belong to me anymore, my heart beating was but a murmur.

I felt like a ghost.

And I would take one last look at the pages I had written during the night and I would know that the world I had created, the world that knew no other God… that was a world I didn’t belong to.

Sometimes I think that’s exactly how God feels when He sees that we hardly remember Him anymore. I guess that’s the worst fate anyone, god or human, could face. Being forgotten.

Yes, I know that I seem to be such a hypothetical creature. But I’m not. I assure you that I’m very real.  And there are many others just like me…


One thought on “The Writer: Chapter 11

  1. The description of writing/writers is very true. Me, as an essayist, feel this every time I want to write.. so I can only imagine what a novelist/story teller feels. Must be a more intense anxious feeling!

    Liked by 1 person

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