Writers Fog

You are completely frustrated-sitting. This was supposed to be easier, you think. You were supposed to be able to pick up a pencil (pens are no fun) and it would dance in circles across the page like a flamenco dancer. Creating whole choreographed stories that would detail each wrinkle of a smile and the pitch of a sigh. But its fucken hard. Your pen stands idly on your hand. 5 minutes turn to ten and looks eerily to going past twenty. You have tried-pathetic word which entails failure-but nothing rings true. You have tried to create a fancy convoluted story as an excerpt for your fears. With an evil treadmill that mocks you. Real life scenario in which your excuses of not having taking initiative by being complacent manifests in the metaphor of a slow runner. You story continues to communicate these fears in such a repetitive, convoluted manner that Hemingway would certainly swear of drinking if you stop violating the English Language.

Your writing is handicapped.

While coming to your realization you become aware of the feast your legs have become to mosquitos. You sit Indian-style scratching the bites more than you are scratching your paper. It mocks you. But you stubbornly leave your legs interlocked. Stay until you have written something of anything.

Ha, you gave up a fancy career in finance for this? Gave away your tie and derivatives for a pencil and a broken hand. Reminding you of those awkward moments when you cannot muster the courage to tell people you are a writer because it is but a synonym to being unemployed.

The lights in the park turn off. Blind. Another beautifully valid excuse for you to get up and go home. Another day to disappoint yourself. Another day to retard your passion.

FUCK THAT! Your body echoes as you stretch your desire and stand. You feel like Spiderman after just having gotten pwned by Venom. You stand because your heart is fucking percussioning this symphony that is your dream.

You walk across the park-ruffling in the bushes. Heart skips a beat only to have your new found courage frightened by a small, sniffing dog. You crack a smile. The owner stands at a distance-bag in hand-with a confused look trying to look where the hell his dog pooped. You head away from the bay towards the street. Your journal branded onto your arms. You don’t want to go home, cannot go home: you might as well cut your hands off at this point. Looking across the street you spot a small cafe: Bottega. Hope. Smile. Speeding heart fueling your accelerating, twitching fingers: eager to write. They never tell you the importance of observing: Shakespearean eloquence is useless unless you are willing to be a complete creep. Your feet speed. Worse than having to pee. You ponder stopping in the middle of the road-words are overflowing-to write. As you approach this beacon of hope you see people. The perfect ingredient for this concoction you call writing.

Two men are sitting is a manly manner: arms stretched to the neighboring chair and legs in a wide sumo wrestler stance. Power resonates from them through their conquering of space. You open the door trembling at the risk into going into a convulsing writing fit. You want to write, some hot chocolate won’t hurt. There are a group of young adults inside. A young man with a red shirt and short brown hair is standing: center stage to his hungry audience who hang on his every word. He moves are relaxed and his hands compliment his speech.

At this point your hand has been seduced by your pencil: furiously tap dancing words. Words print becomes smaller and fragmented. Shit, you don’t think you will be able to decipher anything you are writing later, but fuck it at least you are breathing.

You step forward to the counter and see they have tiramisu. Toothsome.

“I’ll have a hot chocolate and tiramisu, please” you say as you momentarily lift your gaze along with your pencil to retrain you picassoinng across the paper. Returning both immediately to harvest your thoughts back onto your paper.

“Here, that will be $9.57” He has a strong Latin accent accompanied by a kind voice. His eyes curiously observe you furiously vandalizing your paper. You look up, feeling his gaze, anticipating a question.

“Are you writing a review for us? Marge, give him extra chocolate”

You smile broadly and say, “No, I am just trying to write.”

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