Writer's Block

Cillian: I am so sick and tired of this infernal writer’s block.

Ophelia: Have you ever considered you might be suffering from writer’s block because you use such outdated words as infernal? It makes you sound like an old codger. And, contrary to popular belief, old codgers are not known for new and fresh ideas.
Cillian: You might have a point, Love. An old codger, huh? That also means I must come across as some sort of curmudgeon. So, great, I’m a whiner. I might as well become a hypochondriac as well. I’m insane, that’s the end of all that.
Opehlia: I doubt it. Cillian, I love you, but you’re a pain in the a*s 23 hours of the day.
Cillian: But we sleep roughly 8 of the 24 hours…
Opehlia: You’re correct. Wow, you’re more annoying and draining than I originally though.
Cillian: But why should I have writer’s block? How? Why? I need to come up with something important and make it apparent to the world that the system isn’t right the way it is right now. But, that would make it out as though I’m just one of a dime a dozen cynics who enjoy whining about everything because things are not done the way I want them to be. No one will recognize me as an authority on any subject. Fine. I’ll have to write humor or graphic novels.
Opehlia: You could but you still have to have some sort of a message.
Cilliab: Not a message! Damn. I can’t contine to peddle messages that only come across as pieces of propaganda and a call to arms. I don’t want a war, and I don’t want a million more message boards popping up online trying to explain how well or poorly my symbolism and metaphors work. What metaphors are they talking about anyway? I write dialogue and people think everything is a representation and everything else. They’re just words. Everything I write is simply, merely a reflection of these empty times. I know I’m too pessimistic. Fine, I’ll write children’s stories about enchantment and happiness and true love. Or I could write for Lifetime. I hate men a lot.
Opehlia: Maybe. I don’t know what to tell you. Do you want to have some artistic merit or do you just want to make some money? I don’t know how rewarding you want this to be. How about you write that play you’ve been talking about for years? The one about the aliens fighting the vampires and werewolves. People will eat that one up just because they will. No one can explain why those things are so popular. I hate society.
Cillian: Now you’re beginning to sound like me and my characters. Why can’t my characters ever come to realize that life isn’t as bad as they make it out to be? I’m sick of these questions too. I’ll shut up for a little while.
Opehlia: Thank you. Would you like to watch some TV. There’s no dearth of ideas there.
Cillian: Should I read a book or two instead?
Opehlia: You can do anything you want, but I don’t know how happy or inspired it will make you really. I don’t have any answers for you.
Cillian: You’ve never written, have you?
Opehlia: Not since school. I haven’t been in school since….. I don’t remember.
Cillian: Most of life is very forgettable. I love life but let us be honest for a moment here, it isn’t very inspiring or fun…. Does it make any sense? I should embrace it more. It must be some of my responsibility that I am always bored and suffering from what no writer wants…. Writer’s block. If I cannot write I might as well not live. That sounds far too dramatic and perhaps I’m overreacting, but what else am I good for other than writing? Have you ever thought about that? I’ve always been very Charlie Brownish in my life and you’re aware that Charles Schulz wasn’t good at anything other than cartooning, but he was brilliant at it. I’m sure he had his bouts of writer’s block but mine seems to be neverending, which leads to depression, heightened thoughts of inadwequacy, loss of sense of self, identity, purpose. Perhaps if I were a more spiritual or faith-oriented person I could be happier and feel more instead of giving in to thoughts of alienation and nihilism, but who can be certain? Here I stand, confused, blank, ignorant…. I don’t wish to go on but I must or I might as well die. I must talk or you’ll never know anything about me, but I also must write or I’ll never feel better than I do at this moment, and I’m not feeling well because at this moment I am unable to do what I must do to give me some sense of purpose and reason to continue livng. Can’t you see, I write to keep myself going on this earth. Remember when I was taking those math courses? I had to find the value of x. Then they began discussing algorithms and obtuse shapes, cogent, cosines. Remember all that? My mind was not capable of understanding any of that stuff. I could do basic mathematics and I had no desire to do anything beyond that because…. I couldn’t and now I feel I cannot writer. If I cannot write why am I continuing to live on this earth, making all people around me miserable. Do I? Maybe I don’t. Perhaps I’m paranoid. Possibly or maybe I am as unbearable as I believe myself to be. I want some certainity and creativity here. I need to read more, don’t I? I’m not well-read or particularly intelligent or thoughtful…. That’s what comes from loathing yourself, others, and life. I shouldn’t be this way. I shouldn’t be this way. I should never have been this way.
Opehlia: You used to write about me. I used to be your muse. You used to spin these tales of finding a gorgeous girl who would fulfill a hollow man’s life, remember? Your protagonist would be lonely, addicted, broken down, in need of lots of repair and then he would meet a gorgeous goddess who could inspire him to do great things, to live up to his potential, to be who he was always meant to be. I don’t want you to begin despairing and festering away, and come to believe that everyone hates you.
Cillian: But I am so powerless and useless in this world. I want to cure this world of poverty, unjust wars, hunger, murder, suicide, despair, sadness, anger, loneliness, nuclear weapons… warfare in general. To give this entire universe peace, acceptance, equality and understanding but it never happens. Wars continue to happen, marriages continue to break up, addictions and selfishness do not cease. This world does not get any better. It is stagnant and I hate looking at people I love, and the ones I don’t know or love but I care about because I want everyone to be happy but it never happens because…… We’re impossible to please and satisfy. And all I want to do is cry and cry and cry and never wake up…. I don’t want to live in this world anymore. I have proven again and again that….. I’m finished. I need to lie down or sit down, or….. I don’t know what I need to do. But I cannot…. I need to write.
Opehlia: I love you, Cillian. I really do. I don’t care that you can’t do math. I don’t care that you cannot heal the world of all its ails and woes. It’s a dangerous place because…. People will never cease being people. People can be great but they can also be so destructive and rude. I don’t know why it is, but I don’t want you to be unhappy. I want you to write anything, be it happy, sad, of full of your utopian longings. I just want you to do what makes you happy, fulfilled and can make everyone around you happy as well…. Do you really enjoy writing or do you want to do something else?
Cillian: Ophelia, I don’t know. All I know for certain anymore is that I love you but I don’t feel I’m the right person for you because I’m……… Let me leave, please. You’ll meet someone who can do the right things by you. I’m not that guy. I never have been. I never will be.
Opehlia: Cillian, please stay. Please. I love you. I’ll always love you.
Cillian: It’s very hard to love someone who’s already dead. (Exits.)

(Curtain.)