What makes you write anyway?

What makes you write anyway? Is it a mouthful of distress that you just couldn’t swallow on your own? Is it sheer boredom that has you looking at a ticking clock like you’ve never seen one before, in your entire life? The fact that I couldn’t tsunami through a massive crowd drunk on ambition and religiously devoted to cut throat competition? Is it those unforgivably white, crisp sheets? Umm...  maybe not. It could be a book about an inconsolably cynical mother questioning the basis of parenthood and happiness that her son, now convicted of mass murder in his very own school, couldn’t justify.

If pretty was a face, I'd smack it. If pretty were thoughts, I'd probably drink them down.

Like anyone else now, I look for a job. Pragmatism and rationality all of a sudden surge through the particulars of an already misconstrued life.

Amen. 

Fragments of fiction

The room is all right, the laundry doesn’t sit at the side of the bed anymore. The walls are a pretty plum and you wouldn’t find much on them apart from the occasional post-it.

There is something about the windows that makes me uneasy though. They look empty, lacking a certain window like quality. They make you want to jump out of them.

She left a note before disappearing just like that. I try not to sound too dramatic about it, it takes a lot of effort and to make things even less dramatic is the fact that I had been expecting it for sometime now, quite sometime now.

I also knew where I could go looking for evidence, traces that lead me to her. Her journal underneath her pillow, it had been underneath her pillow all her life ever since I gifted it to her on her 12^th birthday.

She never was fussy about her journal. The room keys on the other hand were quite a big deal. They went into her jewelry box that sat at the bottom of the vase swamped by some moss and then the flowers. The dying flowers.

Did I tell you about the note? It said:

ZadieSmith. That’s my password. Just in case….

Just make sure you check my mailbox at least once every week.

Xoxoxo

I’ll try to be back.

What could I say? I just walked back to the kitchen with a heavy heart. I poured myself a cup of coffee. I glanced at the newspaper. I buttered my toast. I boiled eggs. I did everything and anything to keep myself from being a pretentious bore. But everything was like decafe, what’s the point? 

I wasn't sad anymore. I was actually taken in by envy. I envied her walking out of that door without ever knowing when she’d be back.

I dug dirt. She sank her feet in dirt.

I didn’t go to work the day she left, or the day after or the day after the day after. All of a sudden I wanted to go back, back to the good old days, back when we were young and drunk on everything beautiful.

I pour myself a drink and then two.

Its 2 am. I left the door open; she might just walk in anytime now and pretend nothing ever happened. Like it was all a big joke, or like it was all my fault. She always did that didn’t she?

I think I’ve had enough of drinks. I think I am done for the day, but the truth is you are never really done for the day.

To be contd.