The Writer
Empty cups lay lifeless on the desk, next to a pile of notebooks, stained with ink smudges, and filled with writing and dirtied by misguided strokes of ink
standing proud on the desk was a computer, used only when the owner was home, on a stand next to it sat a notebook laptop, used for when the owner was mobile, on the go.
The owner, was a writer, but he was not at his desk, nor was he in the kitchen, living room, lounge or bathroom, he was in bed. His phone was off, sitting on his bedside table, and his watch, his watch was clumsily left on the writing desk from the prior nights writing session. The writer, was over sleeping his usual wake up time.
The writer, was not going to work today, he was going to have a day off, bouts of writers’ block, and of influenza bound the writer to his bed, whilst like continued around him, as he lay motionless in a peaceful slumber.
The writer is at peace, at peace whilst life around him is in full motion, work is being carried out, buildings are being built, meetings conducted, new people are being hired, whilst old people are being fired.
The writer, was dreaming. In his dreams, he could recreate his works, travelling the course of the protagonist, or even, as a passerby watching the protagonist as he goes about the journey written by the writer, and read globally.
The writer, was at peace, and did not want to go to work today.
