lucidus

my writing diary (or something)
2018-02-10 22:25:21 (UTC)

365.40 - carved stone

His muscles ached. All the joints in his body felt stiff. It was like his body was turning to stone, starting from his torso, ending with his hands… The tendons in his wrists shrunk, lost their flexibility. He tried to straighten his fingers, but it was like trying to stretch metal. His lower back burned like it was going to collapse… He was slowly crumbling.

But he had to write. He could barely turn his head, but it didn't matter: he was already facing the laptop screen. He let his fingers dance on the keyboard, flying from key to key, and words appeared on the screen, paced by the looser clicks of the spacebar…

Universes existed inside his head. They had become his reality. He couldn’t let them slip away, they were far too important… So he wrote. He had to learn the magic of language, he had to prepare for the time when his stories would be ready to find a fixed form.

The world outside his window was dark, almost black, with only millions of streetlights and glowing windows to illuminate it. Streets crisscrossed the landscape, the artificial stars of the city huddled closer to a common focal point, the heart of the community, the heart of the city… The urban jungle was alive with late night walkers, partygoers, drunken bar rats crawling back to their apartments. Their silvery eyes glowed in headlights, they disappeared behind corners and into the shadows of the alleyways.

Poet was a city dweller, but he didn’t know his way around the cement blocks, he had never learned to navigate in the currents of the crowded streets. He preferred to contain his world in one single-bedroom apartment. The south-wall windows gave him enough information about the world outside; what was inside him was more important anyway. -




Ad: