Jamie Inniss, paperweight, discouragement
I sit at the table for another couple minutes, then get up. I don’t like sitting, the stillness feels uneasy. The window is open. It is too windy, and my papers are dangerously close to flying away. I do my best to keep them down with my collection of paperweights, but I don’t mind. They are the written words of my head. The danger would be if my head were to fly away. Then the thoughts could quite possibly no longer be recreated.
I have writers block. My mind has decided it has no fresh thoughts to give. It is dead set on no longer taking part in the creation of this work. To that note, I disagree with deadlines. They are harsh and always occupy your thoughts. With my deadline being tomorrow, and my mind now against me, the probability of me finishing this literary piece is small. I believe deadlines know their forbidding nature, adding to their many unforgiving qualities.
I could very easily, but not willingly, be categorized as old. I do however, very willingly classify myself as wise, which I reassure myself has come from the experiences one can only achieve through a well lived life. I dislike age, and the way it insists on looking. Appearance is such an abstract thing, yet we continue to try and create it in such a concrete way. I talk sardonically to any listeners about women continuously evolving into the newest fashions, at a price I would not spend even on paperweights. As I am thinking these things, I realize no one is listening, or developing any interest in the matter, so this will eventually leave me regretting the time I have thought about the issue.
I completely consider myself to be a failed writer. You probably haven’t read any of my literature because of this. I think they’re reasonable pieces, and so I think the problem is that no one understands them. That, however, is the case with everything we do not like. I understand I am lacking understanding in many areas, and that it only makes sense then, that I do not agree or share enthusiasm for many aspects of life. This is why I am a writer.
I walk over to the window. The wind has died down, and I am now staring into a light drizzle of rain. Through the rain, I can just barely see the fence. I don’t know if this is because of the weather, or my declining eyesight. The weather gives me no ideas. I go for a walk in the rain, hoping the wind will start to pick up. I enjoy weather that does not enjoy me.
Enjoyably, the weather likes, or rather dislikes me today. The temperature has dropped to a much needed five degrees Celsius, encouraging others inside. I don’t mind people, it’s the people I mind that bother me. I am not alone. I do not think with a world of this many, I can be or feel alone. The difference to the viewer may be the lack of confirmation I need to feel alive.
No fresh thoughts; discouraging. I have been discouraged before. It wasn’t as bad as people have made it out to be. It is a sudden emotion or emotions that put a stop to your work, with side effects being unpleasant feelings, that may then lead to disappointment. I find it reasonable that I am able to deal with the unpleasantries as they start developing.
A thought. My pen has run out. You wait your whole life to actually experience something as uncommon as a pen that has just run out of ink. I am unable to enjoy the brief moment. I have been trying for weeks to think of the right word and it came. It came as the pen died. As the pen died, so did my memory. Discouraging.