Words

            I woke up fresh that morning, and for the first time in months I felt like writing. I lifted myself slowly out of bed, stretched and headed for my desk. I have no idea what it was that possessed me after what seemed like an eternity of intellectual silence. Maybe my talk with Alberto had truly helped me. The sun shone through the blinds and onto the paper, making a shadowed design. I started writing. I wasn’t sure what I was writing, but I was writing and that was enough for me.

            At lunch I left my desk without even reading over a word. I was frightened that it would be worthless, and all my excitement would have been for naught. I made myself lunch and sat in the kitchen trying not to think about it.

            I needed some fresh air to clear my mind. So, I climbed down the stairs from my third floor apartment and walked across the street to the gardens. I soaked up the afternoon sun, and felt the crisp breeze as I walked along the little dirt paths. I saw a young couple holding hands and whispering secrets in each other’s ears. I saw a mother with twin boys in strollers. I saw a dog-walker with six dogs being half dragged across the park, and I had to stifle a laugh.

            When I went home I read what I had written that morning. It was decent, not half as bad as I feared. I thought Alberto would like this story. The story was the narrative of a writer, entirely consumed by his work—nothing that hadn’t been done before. I continued where I had left off. I was surprised at the ease with which the words came. I wrote until very late because the words kept coming, and I feared that if I slept they wouldn’t come again. When I finally went to bed, barely able to keep my eyes open, I didn’t sleep much because I was so excited.

            The character I had created fascinated me. He was a young man who lived alone, (by choice, not for lack of friends) and led a simple, yet comfortable life. However, he developed an obsession with one of his stories. I was telling about the dilapidation of his life: first his personal life, then his health, and finally, his mind. I was drawn to the suffering of this man, who was driven mad by some external force that seemed to make him keep writing. He seemed almost posessed.

            The writing came again the next day and I put in another full day’s work. And Alberto called to remind me of our lunch date. I was further along in the story than I could have ever imagined I would be. Only two days ago I had struggled to write a complete sentence, but now it seemed as if I would have been unable to stop writing. I had been so engulfed in my work that I had skipped lunch entirely, but instead I went out and treated myself to a nice three-course dinner at the bistro around the corner.

            On the third day since I had started writing the story I had a rendezvous with my old friend Alberto. I kept him waiting a half-hour because I couldn’t tear myself away from my desk and I lost track of time. I apologized profusely when I arrived, and told him all about the inspiration that had struck me the past few days. I recounted what I had on paper so far, and told him of the directions I might take it, though it seemed more that the story was writing itself and that it would probably take me where it desired to go.

            I practically talked the whole time, hardly letting him get a word in edgewise. I apologized again, realizing how I must have sounded, but Alberto was very understanding. He said that it was good that I was working again, and that he was thrilled to see me in good spirits, and that we should meet again the next week so that I could tell him what had happened in the story. Alberto is such a good friend.

            As I hurried back home I thought that what my character needed was a close friend (like Alberto was to me). Someone that would struggle not to let his friend—my character—be drawn into the cruel world of his writing. Of course it would be a futile attempt, for (Alas!) the help would come far too late. I even thought of a back-story: A childhood friendship that was strained when they chased after the same woman, but survived nonetheless. (I admit I borrowed from my own life for that part of the story, but every writer does.) I burst through the door and went straight to my desk.

            I read over as far as I had gone in my story, and when I finished I was very pleased. This was definitely my masterpiece—my “David,” my “Mona Lisa”. I knew at that very moment that if anyone remembered me, this is what would be remembered. This thought inspired me to work. The thought that this writing was not only for me—that thousands, maybe millions, would read the words that I had put on that page—was incredible. I went back and put in the references to the friend, then picked up where I had left off.

            And everything that sprung from the tips of my fingers was gold. It was as if I was weaving an intricate basket with that gold thread from my fingers, and my fingers knew exactly where to go. The pages were stacking up next to me, and I didn’t know how many I had anymore, but every page was a good page.

            The work was tiring. I knew then the burden of genius; it’s unfortunate that the world doesn’t. One feels a duty to enlighten the rest of the world with it, but one knows that they will never grasp more than the surface. Genius is a public service. I was no longer writing the story for me. I was writing in the naïve hope of sharing my genius with another. It was my duty, sent to me from way on high. And with it set before me I continued working.

             I saw my character’s pain almost representative of genius as well. His torturous existence was similar to some of the feelings that I felt, but he was certainly not I. He was weak, someone who couldn’t control his passion and his mind, and who didn’t know the difference between them. He was a failed genius. One who couldn’t steady the raving energy that flowed forth from his heart. Sadly, he didn’t know that he was failing. And I captured all of this beautifully and painfully. I would like to give an example of his narrative:

Today I did not feel myself. I was hardly able to think at all, yet I still wrote just as well. I heard a voice, during my nap, telling me that he was Lord Language, the god of writing. He told me that I had to succumb to my writing, and no longer be a wall between it and the world. I had to cut the cords that bound it, let it rear its noble head, and acknowledge its might. He told me I would be rewarded. I don’t know what to make of it, but my writing does seem to have a growing power over me.

            There is no more hope left for my poor writer. He is letting himself be consumed by his writing, which he has even developed into its own character (poor sap!).

            After several more days of mad writing, I felt exhausted. I had hardly slept or eaten because of my work. My cupboards were bare; I hadn’t left the house to buy any food. I decided that I should let myself get a bit of fresh air for my own health. As I stepped outside the light was blinding, but I thought my eyes would adjust. I walked across the street to the gardens. It was very open out there; it made me feel a little uncomfortable. The people in the park looked at me. I thought maybe they saw that there was something great about me, that they could sense my genius. I thought that if Einstein walked into a room, everyone would be able to discern that he was someone great, even if they didn’t know who he was.

            I left the park. It felt too open, and my eyes were still bothering me, and it felt as if my lungs were breathing in bad air. I went to the indoor market. There, people looked at me too. And when the manager saw me, he took his broom and shooed me out and yelled at me.

            “Get out!” he said. “Get out! We don’t need your kind in here.”

            I protested. I said I just needed to buy some vegetables, and that he couldn’t push me out. I decided that it was hopeless. I spat on his shoe and walked out.

            “I don’t need you,” I yelled.

            The people outside looked at me. There faces weren’t of amazement, but instead of apprehension. Maybe this was another onus of genius—that one is no longer trusted. At that moment, with all the burdens of my state weighing on me, I almost wished to have my genius stripped from me. But, I quickly realized that the burdens would never outweigh the greatness. I decided to ignore the passers-by, there was nothing I could do for them.

            I went to the bistro. I knew everyone there, and I knew they wouldn’t treat me like a dirty dog. When I walked in, the bistro grew silent. Heads turned cautiously towards me. Johann, the owner rushed up to me.

            “What has happened to you? Where have you been?” he asked in one heavily accented breath. It was nice to see that there was someone that still respected me. I started to tell him about my story, and the genius that had come over me.

            He continued, “Your face, it is smudged. With ink. And your hands. Why aren’t you wearing pants? You have a big beard, and do you not take showers?” He shook his head and exclaimed in his native language.

            He insulted me in front of every customer—many of whom I knew. That old, useless fart dared to speak to me in that way, and while I was imparting my genius upon him, while I was giving him the information that could make him the richest man in the world—the gift of knowledge. I asked him if he would simply give me some food. It was all I was there for. He said he would check what he had. He came back with a box of assorted cans and packages. I reached for my wallet, but I couldn’t find it.

            “It’s ok. Don’t worry. Just take care of yourself,” he said.

            There was no need to take care of myself,. I was better than I had ever been.

            I ran back to my apartment  with the box. When I got there I locked the door and caught my breath . I felt like I could finally breathe right. And my eyes didn’t hurt from all that harsh light outside. What I needed was to set myself right by writing. I adsmit I was a little shaken up. I hadn’t prepard myself to face the world as my new self. Eventually, though they would   come around. They would no longer be able to deny that what I was now was absolue genius.

            I wrote for a few days. The end was fast approaching and The writing wass coming faster than ever. And I, being a slow typer, was falling behind what was comin g into my mind. It was just rolling in aas regular as the river. I didn’t have time to walk to the bathroom anymore, because so many thoughts would come to me in that time that I would never be able to catch up. I simpl;y used a bucket that I kept near my desk. I wasn’t taking much note ofg the spelling anymore either beecasy i didn’t have time to check it becausue if I didiI would also never catch up. I was just typing and typing and typing and I knewe as I was typing that every word that came to me was the perfect word, that I would never find a better word or be able to rewrite a sentece because everything I was writing was perfect. Those golden strands coming out of my fingers. THe baskets I was weaving. Woven so tightly that when you hold them up to the light none comesthrough. Every knot expertly tied.

But then there was a knock at my door and I knew that I couldn’t get up, but it wouldn’t go awasy and I just didn’t know what to do . I reachd over my desk for a legal pad and grabbed a pen and wrote furiously by my iown hand as I walked to the door.

            “Hello!” called a voice and I wrote it down as it came to me. “I know you’re in there. They said at the front desk. They told me that you haven’t left for a week at least.” And a pause. “Answeer me! I can hear you! What are you doing it there?”

I couldn’t believe it. My story was ccoming to me. It was appearing in human form. THe story was not being sent to me in my mind. I t was being sent to me in a real physical form that I could touch:

            “Hello!” I cried in joy and wrote it down.

            “It’s Alberto!” called the voice and I wrote it down.

            It sounded familiaer, and then I realized that it was him. It was him! Alberto, he was coming to try and save my character. I knew I had to put him in there I jsut   knew it. Utter genius. Complete and utter genius.

            “You can’t save him I yelled. It’s too late. It’s futile. He has already been drawn into the cruel world of his writing.” Oh the glory! oh the genius!

            “You haven’t answred the phone!

“yelled Alberto!”

“I’m worried. Are you all right? How is it your story?”

I am laughing:

            “Genius, genyis, pure genius!”

x

I opened the door a crack.

            “Leave, please. I’m writing,” I whispered.

And I closed it.

            “Wait,” he cried! “What has happened to you?”

            “No! You won’t save him. The story can’t end that way.” I close the door. And I climb over the garbage back towards my desk. The end was coming, and it flowas like never before.

But the banging wont storp.

The friend wouldn’t stop, Damnit!

And he said I am getting the police

So I said:                                 

I will kill you if I have to!

And the banging stopped.

            He wandered inside his room stark naked and a pad of paper in his hand.He ripped off the sheets as he finished them. The floated gracefully to the florr covering it in their gentle yellow over the mounds of debris and waste, overh the stench of the shit and the mold and the rotting garbage that had been sitign under the sun, but he couldn’t see it he wouldn’t see it because he was inside his own mind. He was  mass without humanity or thought.

The writing would run him to his death.

                        I keep writing on the pad because the words come so vividly. They ring true with the timbre of glory

His mind had been overcome; The words came only to my fingers, no longer passing through my brain.

            He was overcome by the words—  they came to me and he wrote them down. I could see the gold I ws weaving. It threaded through the apartment like spiderweb. As those pages filled the rrroom. And the pages fiilled, and th walls filled with the words that flowed ,wriggling out of my fingerrtips.

I bathed in them.

I soakedthem inthrough my skin.

And men with guns broke down the door with an axe and coverd their  noses with gloved hands as they tried to climb over the garbage and sank into it

And they called warnings but he knew there wass nothing they could do.

He knew it  was too late. Haha.

And he sank deeper.

I fall back and write lying in the  debris of my simple li fe.,

HE immersed me in them—  the words,            on the paper, wall, me—a nd sank deeper.

                        Could see the trash rising like  mountains ti the sky.

hE was deep in the cavern of Darkness and Quiet. Where you don’t need to see or hear;for  all you need todo it to let yourself go. I shighed out and let my bodyand mind shut dewn anf let the writing floe through, let the words come.

                        and I didn’t hear the men with rthwe guns. they haf been sshut out. I did not think about wha t whas outside my blackness. i felt the words run over and around me. I dropped throuh./

            SInking beautifully into words, Through words.

                        My words.

                                    and Yours,

Ours.