State of Soul

Read and Repeat

A wild cherry Pepsi to my left and a YouTube playlist playing through the speaker to my right—it's just another night. Just another young night that is still filled with some sort of magic that lingers in the air. Though I'm not entirely sure what makes the hours between dusk and dawn so magical, I'm almost certain it has something to do with how the images in my head flare with life. That maybe it is linked to how I see their faces and hear their voices. After all, writers are a nocturnal group of beings.

The creativity pumps through my veins, causing my fingers to tap away at this keyboard, leading me to weave these letters into the words you're reading. Stories and poetry drip like foam from my mouth as the characters in my head use me to reveal themselves. In these night hours, I become consumed by the overwhelming need to create to the point it becomes an obsession. I chain myself to this chair and time ticks by. Some may think I'm a prisoner to this craft, but if that's the case, then I gladly surrender my freedom and trade it for a ball and chain.

I remember when I was younger sitting in one of my classes in school. I was situated to the side, not bothering a soul as my pen's point etched onto the paper the story that was burning in my veins. My classmates all chatted and talked around me, their muffled words morphing into the hushed hums which reverberated around me, though I paid them no mind. They merely acted as background noise to me. So, I busied myself with creating a world when a classmate approached. Many of us called him Kentucky since he was from Kentucky and had previously relocated to our city with his family. He was an interesting person who was outgoing and rather nice, but that isn't what matters. What matters was that he was standing at my side, his hazel eyes watching as I continued to write.

"What class is that for?" he suddenly asked, pointing at my writing.

I glimpsed between my binder and him, answering, "It's not for a class."

"What?! You're writing for fun?!" His eyes were wide, astonishment drenching his features.

I nodded, "Yeah..."

He shook his head, walking away. "That's just weird."

It's been years since that day and I never told anyone—including Kentucky—but I always found his response humorous. I knew that my fondness for writing was not one that all shared. If anything, I was one of few in that small fishbowl known as school, but a few of us were better than nothing.

It's still like that. Not all understand my loyalty to this craft, but I don't understand all their interests either. I can't figure out what's so relaxing about fishing—I just get bored. I can't understand why someone would garden—I find that to feel more like work than something enjoyable. I don't get what's so great about hunting—I can't remain in one place for that long. But that's just me. Just because I don't enjoy those things doesn't make them bad or boring entirely. For people who do enjoy those things, they're great activities.

That's me and my writing. I enjoy it. It's a hobby and a passion that I thoroughly love and find pleasure in. When I'm seated here at my laptop, my fingers busying themselves with typing, I begin to lose myself. I lean in close, my tongue ever so slightly pressed between my lips as concentration claims my mind. I become focused, my expression shifting to each character's reaction; joy, happiness, disgust, sorrow, anger, surprise, hurt. I feel what they feel, and I see what they see. But why wouldn't I? I created them.

My characters, as crazy as it may seem, are snippets of myself. All have inherited something from me. Some may have a few of my physical features, some my mentality, others my interests. They are all different, smaller versions of myself and to me, that makes me happy. Because one day when I'm old a wrinkled from the years wearing on me, I'll look at them and smile. And when I pass from this plain to the next, they will be on shelves, their lives never truly ending.

Because even when a good book ends, you can always read it again.

© 2019 K.N. Herzner