Disclaimer: I am not a doctor or medical professional. This article is being written with basic knowledge from what i've seen, heard, and personally experienced.
I blinked and you were gone. Now I wonder if you were actually ever here. Physically you may have been, but wandering eyes may tell another tale. Where is it that you drift to when i want your company? Your eyes glaze over as I would tell you of the tribulations of my day. You would look not at me but beyond me, as if a spot on the wall had had a more interesting thing to declare. Eventually, I stopped talking and you would snap back into reality. Was my presence so terrible? So many words had been lost on you and for what? Guttural sounds and the occasional head nod. No, you never were here. You never gave me the time, the attention, the dedication, the love that I earned. So much of my time was given to an empty shell. So much of my life poured into words of love, only to have them fall upon your deaf ears. You were a ghost long before you walked out that door and I am glad I am no longer haunted by you.
What if i am but an imagination of another? A character written by some unknown entity. Do I really breathe? Do I feel and touch? Is my story a tale of caution? Could it be that my life experiences are meant to help teach unknown readers how not to be? Am I the hero of the story or a nameless face in a crowd of ultimately more interesting script? Had the Author not breathed life into my character, would I still be? Perhaps we all sit, waiting in an inkwell, praying to be chosen by the hand that guides the pen. Just hoping that we are placed where we need to be on this paper Earth.
I've been told the only way to get better at writing is to write. How can I write though when the words escape me? Fluttering away before I can place pen to paper. Before I can grab a napkin and scribble out the words of untold truths. How can I write? When my best ideas are nothing but shadows on the wall, placed by the full moon and blurry eyes. When the stories and feelings only come to me in dreams and then as soon as I awaken they fade away as the night does at dawn. How can I improve? When the only word I can use to describe a hallway is dim. Dim like the author attempting to create a bland world completely void of color or inspiration. When each word becomes an agonizing torture for not only the hand of the author but the brain of the reader. Yet, still, here I am trudging along. Pushing word after word as if my brain is nothing but a factory of toys destined to be sold for nothing less than pennies a pop. When in reality the ink used to write these words are more valuable than the words themselves. Perhaps, I am nothing but a hapless fool doomed to forever view myself as an untalented hack or maybe someday some light will be shed on the words and thoughts I've strung together and I will at last feel as though I have made a slight improvement. Time will tell. Until then, how will I write my next piece?
I breathe in the toxins of my own pride. My own self fulfilling prophecy that someday I will succeed. That someday I will be someone. I am someone. The corrupter of my own fate. The empty glass that falls to the ground and breaks apart into a million dangerous shards. The quivering hand that writes the letters that spell out "You. Will. Be. Nothing."