just a thin, colorless light filtered through the clouds
the sun just didn’t bother anymore
late autumn
It seemed nobody bothered too much
there were almost fifty people there
all gathered for the funeral
He lit a cigarette, not giving a damn what others might say or think, and dragged a long, lazy puff and said, “Still better than a wedding,” to no one in particular
A few did hear him but most didn’t
Weird thing to say at the funeral of one’s own child, but coming from him, it wasn’t that unheard of
“Just let him be,” said a few voices. “After all, he is… you know.”
“Yeah,” he said. “You’re goddamn right. I’m a writer.”
and in just a few very short years he became the inspiration and the motivation for all things associated with late blooming
He sure proved to the world that it’s never too late for dreams
“But what made you start?” I once asked him
and he said, “a fingernail.”
Clearly he wanted me to ask, ‘A fingernail!? Oh my God, what in heavens do you actually mean by that, sir?’
but I kept silent
just watched him
and then he went on
“Yeah. One day at the age of fifty-three I just found this broken fingernail lying on the floor of my bedroom. I’ve never even spoken to a woman in well over ten years, let alone inviting one over. Hahah! So you can imagine my shock as I observed that broken fingernail just lying around on the floor. Fear was obviously the first, most primal feeling that inundated my soul. And I was right to fear. For I was indeed stalked and about to be possessed. And that, my friend, is how I met my muse. It wasn’t some apparition coming and looking for her broken fingernail. No. It was all my fear and morbid curiosity that brought her into my life, summoned her if you will. The mind conjured her up and as I started writing about her, about the event of finding that fingernail on my bedroom floor, our relationship caught outlines. But one thing I do know and that is that it’s different for every writer. Your muse might not come to you in the form mine did, but don’t give up. Keep looking, my friend. And one day, one night, you might just be surprised by what you’ll find.”
I thanked him for the advice and went home and got drunk
“You wanna write about it sometime?” she asked
“Sometime,” I said. “Sure. But not today. Today let’s just get drunk and feel shit and sit in silence.”
He'd fall asleep and the darkness that fell around him would manifest as one being that would hold him tight in her embrace and bite at random from his flesh and tear until there'd be nothing left but pure pain
Darkness was the world
And the world was dark because he had labeled it such
Darkness...
Enlightenment then comes when one is able to emerge from the darkness, to leave it behind, to win over it
Or so it is thought
But those who are truly enlightened know better, don't they?
You cannot possibly win a fight
It's just not how it works
Your decision to fight the darkness or anything else is your decision to fight yourself and yourself alone
Thus you lose even if you win
So then how do you truly win in life?
Well, have you ever thought about not fighting in the first place?
To fight with the world, be it the real world or the world of your dreams, is to fight with yourself
Stop hitting yourself in the face!
And maybe start embracing yourself?
Do so with the world
And what do you think?
Will you not find that the world replies with the exact same treatment?
I believe that's what he did in his dream world too The next time the world turned into pure darkness and came to eat him he just offered himself to it instead of trying to run away, hide and fight back
Had been Before he suicided Overdosed on some pills or something like that
He had a few novels to his name and some short story collections
Other than that he only left behind a daughter who several days after his cremation brought her boyfriend to her house and said to him, "Look, since you wanna be a journalist and call yourself a big fan of my dad’s works, I’m gonna give you something to write about tonight. For your magazine. An article about the departed genius."
"Really?" He smiled, expecting her to share some of her father’s unpublished manuscripts or something like that. It would surely aid in his journalist career. Put him ahead of the competition
But she grabbed the urn that contained the great writer’s ashes and said, "Yeah. Look, I’m gonna pour these into the toilet and take a shit over them. You can write about it and take pictures too."
"What?"
"Hey, you don’t meet up with a story like this every day. Take it or leave it."
perched on top of his desk the doctor looked down at him as a teacher would at a failing student
"Say," began the doctor, "are you even trying to stay alive? Or do you seek the quickest death possible that can't be labeled as downright suicide? You smoke all brands of cigars and add up to three and a half packs a day and drink random alcohols you can pick up and keep at it until there's no more in the bottle. Your liver is done for. The lungs beg for death with each tentative of breath. Veins are as rigid as rusty pipes. You don't even have feeling left in the skin. So what's your big idea, pall?"
Despite all his shortcomings in the health department his eyes were as limpid and innocent as a newborn's
He pointed them at the doctor's and said, "Oh, I have many big ideas, doc. Thing is, they're only big in my head. Once they come out and others see them... Well, they just aren't so big no more. Average at best. And that's what I do all day. I get those big ideas out of my head and try to show them to others."
The doctor took off his glasses. Watched him in a new light. "Buddy... did you not understand the question?"
He sighed. "Doc, I think you didn't understand the answer. So let me spell it out for you in your own language." He cleared his throat. "I'm a writer."
The doctor put his glasses back on. "Ooooh, now I get it. Hah, why didn't you say so from the start?"
"That's the problem with us, doc. We never like to admit it up front. Only the young and those who actually made it will say it up front."
"Ooook, in this case... Well, I guess there's nothing I can do for you, nor is there anything that has to be done. For a writer, you're perfectly healthy."
"I know, I know. I just wanted to see if I could get some morphine..."
Daydreaming as a profession 