nothing is happening…nothing
Nothing happens. Nobody comes. Nobody goes. It’s awful. Being inert. Life, gadding from one place to another, from one person to another, in search of pleasure, hope, is the only consistent comrade, who looks down at him, often with the patronizing contempt that he could never decipher its companionship, nor could he ever take advantage of it, nor could set it free. Like a noose, all around him, clutching at his jugular veins, stretching more and more, in pace with his efforts to go indifferent of its existence, it has become a crude identity of him. Life, his life, that he had started with such a shrill bang that even he himself had to press his ears shut, life that came to him, at least he was told so, as a gift, was bubbling with motion, energy, hopes, ambitions which made him so alive then, the same life is so still now, so much so that sometimes the only sign of life remains his breath, slow, apathetic, constant, almost mechanical, hidden behind the more important things of life, surfacing only when nothing of importance stays important.
His life is not dead. Only still. Silent.
He needs a voice, a harsh voice, piercing through earlobes, direct to heart, agitating the dormant emotions and the will to make through.
And he needs a destiny to chase. A belief to die for. A reason to live with. A story to write.
He is a writer, abstract as his friends say, lost as his heart avers, confused as his past avows, an engineer of words, so many of them with different connotations, if only he were not devoid of tragedies, he could write. He is empty. From inside. So he works…hard at whatever he gets in hand. And after the day’s toil when he goes to bed, the emptiness surrounds him, accusing him of the betrayal. And then, the motion ceases, and life comes to a halt, waiting sideways for him to call on, while he tries to ignore the pernicious confront, assuring him solemnly with his breathing that something, though feeble, is still alive, vibrant upon the many layers of stillness.
He needs to wake up. Things are slipping away from him.
Nothing is happening. No story. No fights. No tragedy. No triumph.
Life of a writer is awful. Life of art is terrible.
Destiny sometimes is nothing more than struggling through life, from day to day.