I am a writer. I write about…
… write about…
No, that’s no good. She scribbled the words and ruffled her fingers through her long, dark hair.
She slouched forward onto the desk. It creaked as her elbows pressed into the old wood.
The room was dark, cloaking the unkept bed and dirty laundry piled up on the carpeted floor next to it.
Something grand. She needed something grand. This was a special milestone.
There was a click and a spark, as the electrical baseboard heater reacted to the cooling temperature of the room. Tink-ku-ku tink-ku-ku, the sound growing gradually quieter, warming up.
The girl did not notice. She adjusted her perch, the joints of the swivel chair squeaking while her feet wriggled for a dry spot, wiping off the sweat. She sat in a deep squat, her chest pressed against her legs. The girl’s knees fitted perfectly into her armpits, her weight balanced comfortably on her ankles. It was indeed a comfortable position for her.
I am… She wrote again. The pencil scratching the surface, but she did not finish the character.
Just sat there.
…
… nothing. I am nothing, she thought. But the pencil did not move. Satirical musing.
Her thoughts went empty. Transcending her body. Outside the window, it began to rain. Slow and soft. It got progressively louder.
How pleasant, she thought. The pencil lifted off, then tilted over.
With one hand, she twisted the pencil under the buzzing lamp. Her head tilted over. Her other hand palmed her cheek.
…
The rain’s pitter-patter began to drown out the lamp’s buzzing. Thunder rumbled in the distance. Nostalgia hit her.
How serene would it be, she thought. To return to the days where she could sit and do nothing but watch the rain. When nothing was required of her. Nothing to worry about. Not knowing there was something to worry about.
Her eyes drifted to the picture frame on her desk. But then she would not have felt a sense of accomplishment. Which was better? What would he have said, she thought. If he were here. If she had asked him. Could ask him.
The pencil tilted upright. Was it better? To be ignorant. Or to be insightful. So much so it couldn’t be ignored. The thoughts.
Silence, the only safeguard. Otherwise, people would have thought she was crazy. Incoherent. Attention deficient.
Or was it a fake perception? Was there a way to tell? Thunder rolled, the wind picking up and trembling the windows.
Nothing came to mind. The girl wished for someone to talk to. But at the same time, did not want to talk.
The paper. She could talk to the paper. Without talking.
But instead, the pencil touched down and continued where it left off.
… a novelist. She wrote. She was a novelist. That sounded better. She continued.
This is a story about…
Her story. But that would be repetitive.
…
How else could it be written?
A story… about… about…
What about me could I write, she thought. What should I write?
My life. Sounded stale. My world. Perhaps? Abstract, but sounds magical.
Maybe.
Or cliché. Was it bad to be cliché?
Her eyes stung. She did not want to write anymore. Perhaps it was better to write another time.
She set aside the paper. The pencil laying flat on the desk. She would return to it another time.
But she did not go to sleep. She sat, still crouched. Still at the desk. Still raining. Her hands criss-crossed over her knees. The long sleeves wrapping over her legs. Her feet shifting one last time.