Addict With a Pen

Chapter I

Tylers POV

I sit in my dark room with my pen staring blankly at the paper I am towering over. The only light source in the dim glow of the sun shining through my sheer curtains. I only had three simple words on the page. 'Addict with a pen.' I didn't know how else to explain who I feel I am. All i do is sit in my room with the lights off and try to write out how i'm feeling. To hopefully override my depressing thoughts. I was told once that accepting your 'disorder' is 90% of the battle. I couldn't disagree more. I feel accepting it almost is like opening a door only to find that you have still a long way ahead of you. Accepting my depression opened the door to the house in my mind, but battling it was the long and winding road outside that house. So I am stuck walking that road alone watching cars with other people in them never stopping for me. I felt alone. This pen is all I have to get me through it all. 

My thoughts were interrupted by a harsh knock on my apartment door. I didn't flinch I simply kept my eyes locked on the paper. Until the knocking started again. So I slowly stood up and headed towards the door. My legs were slightly numb for sitting for so long. Don't ask me how long I never knew the answer to that. I grabbed the cold door knob and turned it opening the door only slightly to see who it was. It was the landlord. I closed the door before he could speak and grabbed my wallet from my kitchen table then heading back to the door. I opened it fully this time handing him the money. He had his hand up as if he were about to knock again. He furrowed his eyebrows and moved his hand to grab the money. His hand moved like it was stuck in molasses. I always hated interacting with people. They always looked at me like I was special, and not the good kind of special. Finally he had the money. I hadn't made eye contact afraid he would try to start a conversation so instead i quickly shut the door and made my way rather awkwardly back to my chair. 

It was in these times after I would interact with someone that I wanted to cry. I am able to realize how awkward I was. I am able to see how I could have handled it better. I am able to see how he thought i was crazy. It hurt me deeply. I only let the tears fall never fully breaking down. Not that it really mattered. No one was here, I was alone as always. Maybe i refused to because it would disappoint myself and the thoughts in my head.

It has been sometime now of just staring at the paper. The pen, this time, was not in my hand. Rather it layed next to the words on the page. I relied on the pen too much. It was like a church to me. But the difference between a church and a pen. Is that one day the pen will die. The ink will run out. Just as I feel my will is running out. It's like a hourglass. slowly pouring out to what is the inevitable. It was my timer and the ink has almost run out.