The words stopped coming. He enjoyed the respite at first, later less. Much less. He cleared away ripped pages, unwritten books. Sometimes they appeared when he was drunk. Then through a haze of phrases he came stalking meaning, like some Kasper Hauser trying to make sense out of a childhood murk. Was it him or the words? He listened to them and they spoke him; there was no getting behind them. But it was exquisite when they dropped into the right places. But fleeting. There were turns and fading paths, but there were vantage points too. Or rather walks that got you lost then brought you back as someone new. The words woke him at night, phrases in his head like worms in a box.

2 responses to “Words

  1. The poet, though to be fair he never calls himself this, has lost count of the pints he’s drunk. The girl is keeping up with the empties. She’s pretty as a doll and has stuck a pencil in her bun. The pencil distracts him pleasurably. She’s fast but he’s an expert drinker, that much is true. His work is very profound and becomes more so as the night wears on. Though he’s an expert drinker the poet struggles to keep up with the girl as she moves about collecting glasses. He considers speaking to her but doesn’t. The following day his eyeballs hurt and his work has turned into a perfect illustration of Romantic excess. Then the real work begins, to be undone again at some later stage.

  2. This was a very interesting work to read. A lot of truths for all writers, beyond just the character in your story. Well done.

    Got here via Jeque’s Web Nook. Glad I stopped in. G

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