#128

in a little less than fifteen years he had won almost every award the literary world had to offer. they sat, gathering dust into corners, fervently, like an old woman tidying up for company.
over time, he had learned to give expected answers about inspiration and the writing process. "neruda," he would say. "neruda wrote every day regardless of how he felt. writing through those uninspired days gave him both courage to persist, and a plethora of material to delve into." cue the applause.
not that he didn't revel in those words. it's just the he felt they were false. how unbearable! to cringe over false words in the world of fiction!
he couldn't explain how the stories came. he would sound mad, perfectly mad if they knew the truth. what sort of disorder was it that made him scribble words, paragraphs, entire chapters in his sleep? in the morning, a slightly messy, precisely worded story lay waiting for him on the notepad beside the bed where he slept alone.
too long now. too long he loved and hated this gift. his distrust of self gave way to insomnia; he longs now for a normal life, a normal rest.
and now he prepares for his greatest work of fiction. he must tell the world why there are no more words.