It became a comrade who withstood beside me through every prose and poetry that I have scribbled. It breathes life to the stories that flourished within me and it fails me not.
It became an ally, to whom I can bare even the darkest ebb of my soul. It listens and allows me to be as true as I am. I can be jolly or glum or mad and writing will judge me not.
Writing became a friend who allows my growth as a real person. It is my eyes, my ears, and my heart that inspires me to see, hear and feel the throbbing world around me.
Writing became silver wings. It carries me to far-flung places and most, into the thoughts of other people. To share my sight and my heart with them.
The square clock finally struck ten in the evening.
For the thirtieth time, Alexandre disgustedly pulled the bond paper from the typewriter, crumpled it to a lump, and then plunged it into the blue waste can to join other crumpled papers he had thrown there earlier.
How long he had been sitting on that creaking chair no longer matter as long as he could come up with at least one bit of a story– right, just one darn story.
Tomorrow would be the last day to pass his entry for the prose writing competition of amateur writers. He must finish a story all this night to be able to submit something tomorrow. For beginning writers like him, the competition could be a sort of a big boost to make his name and skills recognize on that field.
He always like to write. But, when he received the neurologist’s diagnosis about his disease, he knew he can’t face failure twice.
A rare type of Dementia runs in their family and it will soon devour his memory prematuredly, including his skills on words and writing or whatever he has inside his mind.
Actually, at first he was reluctant to submit anything, afraid of being rejected again or maybe of being disappointed again. But his friend had been determined to pursue him until he couldn’t argue anymore.
“Don’t tell me you’ve given up so soon,” Tim mocked.
“It’s not that. You know that I like writing. It could be my life, yet it seems my hand and my mind doesn’t like to cooperate with me most of the time,” Alexandre muttered.
“I never know that it could possible, is it?”
“Me neither. Until…”
“Until you have read the story of the painter with a carpenter’s hand, am I right?” his friend interrupted. “That hopeless, frustrating story cast you to believe that such things might be real and worst, might happen to you as well.”
Perhaps, it was also happening to him.
One moment, his head was full of ideas and fancies enough to draft great tales and narratives, yet, the moment when he tried to give those bared thoughts a life and a form with letters and words and paragraphs, his mind would get frozen and blocked.
He could not even scrawl anything right out of those perfect images.
“Now, I’m also running out of time. I might woke up one day no longer remembering anything of the stories already scribbled in my head.”
“You are still young and I’m sure you still got enough time to finish a number of books.”
“What I know is that I’m scared.”
“Of what? Not able to write?”
“No. I realize that I’m afraid not being able to remember the words that I have not yet written down.”
It was, indeed, a hard struggle.
A failure.
“But just the same, you can still write,” his friend argued. “Sometimes ago, I stumbled upon what’s left of your written works and I think they were good enough.”
“I don’t think so. What I often write was not exactly what I have in mind,” Alexandre shrugged.
“But can’t you keep those? These might also deserve to be read, not just to be crumpled and thrown into your can.”
There are few time when he could be able to scribble something too, but, just the same, that will just end up in his blue can.
This was not the first time he considered joining a similar competition; yet to no avail, he just couldn’t create one perfect story as an entry. He was ashamed of it. Not being able to do something that’s perfectly right seems to tear him apart.
The sealed thoughts haunted him like restless ghosts, as if his head will burst out if these are kept inside.
Alexandre recalled the painter whose hands were not blessed of the capabilities, which his head had.
Somehow they were not different at all; and they might even share the same pain and frustrations. Both the painter with the carpenter’s hands and him were artists deprived of the expression for their crafts.
“I must not be like him. I must not end up a total failure like him.” Alexandre whispered to himself. “If only I could write something different.”
He got up from his seat and went for the kitchenette on the far left side of his room.
While fixing a glass of milk, something in the cupboard, which, hanging above the sink caught his attention. As if remembering something, he reached for a little vial up above the shelves and took a spoonful of the white powder and mixes it with his milk.
Alexander brought the glass with him as he went back to his table; and began to stroke the typewriter’s keys.
Slowly, despite of the difficulty of letting the thoughts flow continuously, he had somehow, been able to form a narrative.
It took a longer time trying to come out real on his story but just the same, he was definitely sure he has done it.
A cock crows just as Alexandre was already tapping the last words of his article—”the words on the bottle read…” The cock crows again and he has finally finished it.
Going over his work, he frowned at the start but grinned to himself later on. The smile revealed his satisfaction. It was not a winning piece but it was his only obra-maestra. It was enough that now, he had not only written something else, but have also finished it.
He yawned and the thought that he was tired and sleepy finally came into his mind. He tucked the finished materials in a brown envelope and left it atop his table.
Recalling the glass of milk, he reached for it and gulped down all the remaining content of the glass. Then, he lay down on his bed and closed his eyes.
Hours later, it was already morning. Rays of sun streamed through the window beside the table.
The typewriter was silent. On the table are papers unused and an empty glass. An envelope lay half-sealed beside it.
At the side of the table was a blue waste can full of crumpled papers. At the other side of it was a wooden dock where the writer was stretched out.
A sink was positioned at the bed’s foot. A few plates still unwashed were neatly piled up on it. A half-filled vial stood beside the plates. Closely, the words on the bottle read: Warning: POISON.
Perle en Stylos 