A writer's mind: An anthology

00 | Stuck

2nd Person POV

The void within, cast by a single light source: A light bulb. There's hope for writing after all. However, it was futile. No matter how many times you rack your brain for the words to say, no matter how much you scribble ink on a white sheet, no matter how much it stained like bloodstains: you find yourself in a state where you weren't able to write your woes. You're unable to depict your alluring artistry with mere chirography. The inner you had been able to thwart all attempts, rendering you incapable of using your ideas into written format.

It baffles you so, the pent up anger against you was too much to bear. You desperately want to write a story to release your ingenuity with your rushed concepts, but you lack thereof natural talent. You weren't cut out to express one's ideas. You're a sorry excuse for a storyteller. The cup you bear is half full, yet half empty. It alarms you, yet it also saddens you. In your hand, you grasp your pen within your forefinger and thumb, chewing your bottom lip as your eyes stared at the paper smudged with incoherent writings in a desperate attempt to look for anything salvageable in your work and yet it remained as it is, just a bunch of obscure notes much to your dismay.

You spare one last look before you tear and crumpled your work with your own two hands, the cup overflowed to the brim and spilled your frustrations and ending your false hope of writing your very own novel. As you lay dejectedly in the warm sheets of your bed, your brain reprimands your whole being, and alas, you shut your eyes as the tears came, the pain swells and eats on your dreams.

"Maybe I'll try again tomorrow..." You quietly cheer to yourself, coaxing your bitter thoughts with sheer positivity. With eyes fluttering close and drawing out one last puff of air, you smiled.

05/20/2020
—Yulia