qdesjardin | The Inspired Writer

The Inspired Writer - by QDesjardin

If you were to describe his Writer's Block, it wouldn't be a shiny, golden treasure resting upon his desk. But tangible, oh oui, for it denies him that source of inspiration flowing through the minds of other writers, a river of emotion and story that mows down as streams and rapids. Who is Marie? Who is Mizuki? By any other writer they would be fashionable characters partaking in the grand plot weaved by some purpose. By him, they are just names with the faintest possibilities; which stories would need them?

He stares at the blank white screen of the document, cursor blinking, almost taunting him with untyped text. He makes a title, deletes it immediately, makes another one and finds no path there either.

So he coups at home, in the midst of golden holidays, indulging in the delights of others' fictions and warm cocoa, doubt always weighing on his creative future. He's written a few works, short stories and dabbled in poetry. Is this to be it? Will he be washed-up and hopeless? Imagine how pitiful it would be, how shameful, he shall join the ranks of the damned, doomed to be mocked as a hack, a petit failure.

This shall not be. Non, if he could help it!~

He spits at Fate and Pity's indifference, and the lightning rings through his nerves, raging him like a painful ecstacy, and he would glee when he cheats those set boundaries and fly away with wings he could call his own. He will call upon Inspiration, and steal away the most prettiest divine Muse from the heavens. Make love with her beauty and shine like a star, truly. He is not a nobody. He will sing, sing, even if he is permanently deformed and ugly, sing anyways - for it will be more regrettable if he never does.

He sits down by the cafe table, those onlookers noticing his envy amidst their self-absorbed chatter. Then he closes his eyes, tuning himself into the world of the imaginary, and sees their Muses - each beauty watching over their Artists. These beauties, these Soul Mates, for each their own unique music radiating from their souls. He doesn't see his. Life has forsaken him, it seems.

No more.

He sucks away what he cannot naturally have, his heart grinning, feeling the Muses' beauty pouring altogether into him, wonderful.

And then he fashions out of each Muse, his own. His Frankenstein's monster. His Pygmalion's Galatea. And his Muse is so beautiful that his heart aches under the suffocation of the entire ocean, and he kisses her, breathing air by her lips, and she kisses him back with all tender love. How much happiness he is feeling is beyond words.

He musters himself back to the blank document, and after taking a bite out of a chocolate bar, he writes a heart-rending story. At last, he finds his satisfaction.

The End (Wishful thinking.)