Memoirs of a Washout Writer

Squinting his eyes to better see in the light of a pale gibbous moon, he hurriedly takes out the short pencil hidden in his shirt pocket, and proceeds to write on the little scraps of paper he was able to salvage from the trash. Everything that he writes, and all of his thoughts and emotions, will be carefully placed inside a little time capsule.

Was it still night-time? Or was it already morning? He couldn’t tell, for he had already lost track of the time. He was once again lost in the labyrinth of his own thoughts.

He wondered when it all began, and how he had found himself in this gloomy situation. He was probably at fault, perhaps. After all, he was already accustomed to taking the blame for causing hurt to people he had never ever wished to hurt. He had grown accustomed to being questioned why he did the things that he did, when all he was doing was write stories; stories that had in them the capability to reach out and impart valuable life lessons to just about anyone who was willing to listen. He was no prophet, he knew that. And we was no award-winning author either. He was simply a writer, a storyteller.

And yet here he was, with yet another time capsule in hand, trying to bury his dreams to the ground, shoving all the words beneath layers of rock, and dirt, and bitter tears. There was just a handful of things that he could be proud of, for he was just as mediocre as people saw him to be. It was of course possible, that he was again belittling himself. Perhaps; he wasn’t sure. The confusion and the frustration of having to face judgement for something he didn’t consider a crime was starting to cast a dark cloud on his mind.

He was, of course, not without a hint of optimism. I can still probably go on like this, he thinks to himself. Writing on scraps, and waiting for just about anyone to come and find the little steel canisters that he had buried, once he had left this wasted patch of land. As he finishes covering the last hole that he had dug up, he repeats to himself, This is all for the best.

Back in the empty comfort of the small house he lived in, he closes his eyes and tries to go to sleep; promising himself that tomorrow will be a brighter day.

 
-Ed. E.

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