The writer he writes


The writer he writes


The writer sits outside in the dark, he blows smoke and drinks, just like writers do, is he a real writer? well not yet, but he is making progress, he writes when they sleep and sleeps when they rise, a half moon, half a cigarette half glass empty half glass full (of clichés). He thinks about her, he sees her naked connected to another man, her body moves just like she moved when he was inside her, she thinks about the writer as the other man moves in and out, she shuts her eyes and sees him writing in the dark about her moving and she moves, and when she opens her eyes she knows he is still writing about her opening her eyes, she is in bed, she is with another man, he is not like the writer, she knows he can’t write, but he has a body and he keeps her warm. It’s so much easier to be, it so much easier to be with someone else, he lets her be, and she is all she ever wanted. But as she falls asleep she sees him write about her future and knows she is on his mind, she knows he knows she knows, they know, they always knew.

He saves a draft, he knows the alcohol lies and he knows he used to be better at this, but he knows he has to start over. And as he writes he thinks about the fact that no one reads his mind or work, he knows it’s ok, he knows it’s not good enough, he knows he is trying just like her, trying to be a better person, he knows it’s something, not something to write about home, nothing to put in an envelope, but a glimpse, a hint of the potential he had when he wrote. And the alcohol lies as he types a few more words as he takes another drag, he knows he needs to quit, but he is not a quitter, and what is a writer without a smoke? what’s a writer without the mist? what’s a writer without the darkness of his days and brightness of his nights? Night animals howl from the forest, and he suddenly remembers the night he went out of war, sweating in tears, crossing borders of confusion, and they were screaming, and howlllllling wishing him a better life and a future.

He remembers what happened when he got back, he remembers him reading her his love, he remembers how she fell for him, how she was he’s for a few seconds and he smiles. Many years have passed, love replaced love but love never replaces memories, he remembers her body and her heart beat, he remembers all she wishes to forget, and remembers giving up and letting her forget in slow motion, not without a fight, not without a war of words, not without him knowing she reads, as she wakes up and as she falls asleep, praying for his sanity, letting him go, letting him write, letting him be the person he should be.

Every few years I die, you need to die to know you are alive, you need to cry to know that you were smiling, I died that year a few times, I died and came back another soul, but with the same memories, and with the same noise, a hole in the chest and a smile in the pocket, it was a good year, you discover, you unveil, you rediscover, and when you win or fail, you find God, waiting for you, the same God, the same place, like no other God, there is no other God, thank God.

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One Response to “The writer he writes”

  1. Alpha 5 Says:

    i miss your writing.

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