I've taken to the pen again, not unlike alcoholics take to the bottle. And just as any recovering alcoholic will tell you, the habit ruined my life.
It's addictive, this writing business. The allure of the infinite possibilities hidden within the pen is irresistible. I used to conjure sandcastles in the air using nothing but the pen, words would come pouring out from Shakespeare-knows-where, and they were beautiful words. The sin was probably that I got used to it. I guess that is always where the rocky road south begins - taking things for granted. I, like many before me, forgot that change catches up to everyone, eventually.
It sneaked up on me one morning when I sat down to let my mind make magic with the pen. Nothing. The silence was so pronounced that I imagined my "rain man" beneath the sheets, fast asleep. In order to wake him up, I did what anyone who wakes up in second gear does, I prepared my preferred form of caffeine injection and disappeared behind a mug.
Hopefully, I picked up the pen again. But it wouldn't move. It just didn't know where to go. I could have dropped it then and called it a day, but I was addicted. I had to write. And since fiction wasn't forthcoming, I delved into my memory for a story worth telling. Regrettably, I didn’t find one. I found two hundred.
The thing about the past, specifically mine, is that there are no happy endings. I may have come out of the other side smiling but there was nothing to be happy about. And the search for silver linings only uncovered more and more unresolved issues. They, the ones who know it all, once advised us on the treatment of sleeping dogs. I didn't listen.
All of a sudden, I had no right to be smiling. That gave birth to frustration as I couldn't write anything besides dystopia. I became angry because the stories I couldn't make sense of were my life. Had my life been so insignificant, inconsequential and irrelevant? How come I couldn't find any words that would add glory to it?
So I ran outside. I tried to do things and meet people, but I had been writing fiction for far too long. Reality had lost its lustre. I developed insomnia which, I believe, stemmed from the inescapable fear that tomorrow was going to be worse than today. And in those days, "today" was generally terrible. I was having nightmares every night yet I would wake up filled with dread - not relief - because the reality was worse than the nightmare.
It all culminated like it always does, I snapped at someone I cared about. I instantly regretted my words as soon as they left my lips. But that didn't stop them from hurting. Sadly, it is always the ones we care about who get hurt, isn't it?
Hi again, everyone. My name is Nevin, and I'm an addict.