The Writer

A grand piano covered in dust stands in the corner of the living room with a beautiful mural window above shining a colorful ray of light on it, highlighting the dust that floats in stasis around the piano. The writer sits on the heavily used couch that is covered in stains and holes, opposite to the grand piano. The writer stares at its solemn shadow that casts onto the floor thinking of nothing for he can not produce a single memory. His typewriter sits on a coffee table made out of plywood and holds many beer cans from many nights. In his head, he can hear the funeral song playing on that very grand piano as he feels his memory fade, his fortune, his dreams all fade away into the darkness. He knows this is no writer's block but something more, something which he prayed to never happen. His mind swirls and mixes but no thoughts or memories could form. The writer sits for hours but nothing comes to mind, his mind was already drained of the little resources he had and so now what is there from keeping him here. There was nothing to let him grasp onto, nothing for his memory to live on. He already knew he would die alone in the darkness of this very room even though a part of him begged to differ. With such confliction, he began to pace and the pacing began to be jogging around the living room till finally, he sat back down with some tiredness praying his two sides had finally quieted down yet still he heard the conflictions, the fantasy and the truth he knew too well. The writer, in a fit of frustration and sadness, threw the typewriter across the room shattering it into hundreds of pieces. He sat back down finally having total silence and stared at the door praying a thought would come to him at any second. Sadly nothing came and even worse he felt the void even greater and so he stood up and with the funeral song playing in his head again he headed toward the door. As he opened it a book closed and a light enveloped him, taking away the void that was his mind.