Fractured Articles

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[UNEDITED - PLATONIC INTERACTIONS]

creativity

/ˌkriːeɪˈtɪvɪti/

noun

the use of imagination or original ideas to create something; inventiveness.

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WILBUR SAT ON his bed, waiting for inspiration to hit him. He needed something, anything, to write about, but he just couldn't think of anything. Along with his lack of motivation, his lack of creativity was really irritating him. He'd been sitting there for over an hour, mindlessly strumming at random chords, trying to make up a simple tune, maybe a melody if he were lucky, but he wasn't. Wilbur was never lucky, 'cause that's just the kind of person he is. He was lucky with looks, with his career, but he wasn't lucky with song writing, nor with writing the melodies. 

Em, C, Am, D, E, F#

Nothing. The young man grabbed is capo clip, fastening it so it remained on the 4th fret. Maybe the problem wasn't the chords, maybe it was the key. 

Em, C, Am, D, A, E

It sounded.. better. Smoother, even. Now all he needed was a basic lyric or so for the chorus. If he worked out the chorus, then he could work out the verse. 

Em, two down, one up, one down, one up. C, two down, one up, one down, one up.

Wilbur continued the pattern with the other chords, swapping some of them out for other chords, even making some adjustments to the capo. He moved it down by one fret, wondering if he'd be happier with that decision. He wasn't. In a fit of frustration, he threw his guitar at his office wall, leaving a dent that he'd have to explain later. The brunette smiled, finally being able to let out some of his anger in a form other than music that would never see the light of day. Walking over and picking his guitar back up, Wilbur observed the damage. His sleek acoustic guitar now had scratches on the masterfully finished varnish, and a slight crack. Smiling in a near-maniacal fashion, he raised his guitar above his head, considering his actions for a mere second. He then decided.

His guitar came crashing down, essentially shattering to pieces, with a multitude of off-tune twangs. He continued bringing the guitar above his head and smashing it against the floor, completely unaware of the rapid, basically frantic knocking at his door. When the brunette snapped out of his trance, all that remained of the guitar was the neck, albeit snapped. It was, quite obviously, beyond repair, and so was his door as soon as whoever was the cause of the knocking that had occurred mere seconds ago kicked it down, rushing to Wilbur's side. 
"Wil, what happened...? You broke your guitar, you haven't done that in months... are you alright?" A timid, soft-spoken German asked him. Shit. He'd forgotten that he'd invited Niki for a quick jam session, hoping that she would break his streak of uninspired lyricism. Everything he'd thought of so far had been torn from his note book, scrunched up into a messy ball of paper, then sloppily thrown at a small wire bin.
"Hey, Niki...-" Wil murmured, dragging out the 'y' to hopefully make the situation less awkward, but he did the exact opposite. He caused more tension. He caused more stress. Oh god he caused more stress why did he have to cause more stress he was already stressed enough couldn't he just get a break why did he have to ruin everything why was it always hi-
"Wil! Wil, hey, it's alright, it's alright, breathe, okay? Just breathe, you'll be alright..." the shorter said with a sorrowful, almost mournful look. She knew Wilbur's anxiety was this bad, but she didn't think he'd have a full-on breakdown. Sure, this wasn't the first time in the last six months, but he'd destroyed something that meant more than anything in the world to him. He destroyed his one object of happiness, his one provider of emotional relief.

"Niki, Niki, god, I'm so sorry, I forgot you were coming, let me just clean this up, I'll rush home and get the other guitar," the tall man spat out, barely holding his composure. He knelt down and started picking up the pieces of guitar as if they were pieces of shattered glass, but with less caution. His hands had started to bleed, but he could barely feel it through the adrenaline rush. Rushing to his side and kneeling down, Niki lifted Wilbur's hands up, holding them tightly. She looked him in the eyes, trying to get him to calm down. Thankfully, it worked this time.
"Don't worry about the other guitar, just sit down, alright? We can sort this mess out later, but for now, how about we just chill, maybe watch a Disney movie or something? I'll put on a cheesy 80s horror if you beg," the girl suggested, knowing this was an offer that he couldn't possibly refuse. She knew that Wilbur enjoyed Disney movies, and that was evident in the nod that he gave to her, indicating that he thought her suggestion was a good idea. 

Wilbur kept on going through his thoughts, thinking through what could've led up to this.

Was it the stress, or was it the loneliness?

The loneliness caused stress, so definitely the loneliness.

As he sat with Niki on the floor of his office, Wilbur gently dozed off the the loud screaming of American teenagers in Texas Chainsaw Massacre, forgetting most of the events that occurred half an hour beforehand.