He wakes up in an unordinary fashion; he has a poem, waiting anxiously to kiss that gold-egg-laying goose that hides behind the pieces of the stranded hairs on his forehead. Words align in two parallel lines on top of a carpet of a red velvet short story, celebrating the glorious sight of the shine that escapes from the late-night wrinkles of his face. He wears his royal 50 cent slippers and marches, carelessly, to the bathroom. A song washes the tears from a previous night of not being able to fill the blank vastness of an empty page. He looks at the mirror, but there is no reflection; he became a reflection ever since he was introduced to that broken, classic 79 type writer. He opens the cabinet with memories of half-sleeve shirts, an empty bottle of Lacoste perfume his ex surprised him with at his very first book signing party, and a half-folded letter titled, ” I am sorry, but we don’t belong to each other anymore.”
He wonders for a second–not clueless but to sketch an outline for the novel he’ll write. A ‘breakfast of the champions’ is prepared and served by himself to himself: alphabet cereal! He thought that it would be a good idea to arrange the letters on his plate, maybe he could find an anagram that would do the trick of giving him a ‘push’. “Regret” was the word of the day. He laughs, thinking that it is only the writer’s duty to carry a heavy debt of regret or else his writing becomes bland– without the real flavor of life. The TV is on; he loves the sound of Robin Williams. He says he’s the greatest thing that ever happened to humanity. A man that has had his heart on the tip of his tongue, he contemplates the fact that “The Dead Poets Society” was what transformed him from a mere mechanical projector into a pen, inked with light, in darkness.
His desk makes a loud cry for the return of its long-lost Jedi. Can he make it? He stretches his hands only to remember that she is no longer going to hold it so that he can stand. His foot trembles a bit—a mark of an old injury from the time he chose his first piece of oak to make a frame for his first published fictional story “Illusion”. He tries to capture the fragmentation of the missing pieces of his memory to recall whatever reason made him settle for such a title. His memory isn’t the same anymore. Words replaced the people and places that were once tightly packed in a safe deposit of souvenirs he had collected throughout his life. “Am I ever gonna get a grip of what used to be the normal me?” he thinks, nostalgically, to himself.
The answering machine stopped in the aftermath of his decision to conform to isolation. He reaches the refuge he built single-handedly; his own place where he plays his favourite character: God. Here, the full length of the demonic talent that posseses him appears. Here, the human exits and the demon enters. Here, true conflict shapes reality. Vivaldi takes the ground with his masterpiece “Concerto for Two Violins”. The clash between the two violins ignites the fuel he needs, and then it comes–an explosion of words. Time is endless in his confinement. How can you measure something that was fused with his existence?! Clicks coming from the typewriter rise in respect to the epic duel. He is no longer there, only his shadow, sitting comfortably.
The violins announce the end of the battle of David and Goliath battle. He is there among the heavy number of casualties gasping for air. He says that he made it! Could it be the one?
A euphoria of blood perfumes the place; the scars of a warrior cover his body. Is it worth the cost? He is never the same after each endeavor. Robin’s voice comes to tell him this the end. “He must’ve done it for a good reason” occupied his exhausted trouble-making mind. He takes the pen that was once a will of the dear father he never met. He always had dreams of his father killing him; he never thought his pen would have the honor! He measures precisely the force that would be necessary to puncture his vein. (YouTube–for once—does the job!)
A swift swing and it was in. He didn’t freak nor did he move, all was silent and so was he. The last act he so fondly performed, as the blood floods endlessly from his neck, is writing a title for his very last piece. (Oh, and also editing a grammatical mistake he found in the first page.) Once a writer, always a writer, right? He uses the same blood-stained pen to make his writing more alive! He struggled to reach the final letter of the final word he’ll ever write; the letters that fell in love with his loving hands paid their tribute, helping their master. He gasps his final breath. The papers covered his body; they enjoyed the fact that they were the last thing that touched the warm skin of their creator, or maybe they wanted to accompany him to the place he so longs to call “home” in the red font of that final title, “Home Found Me”. His body is nowhere to be found! All that was left were a scrambled of papers all over the floor, the stains from spilled “blood lava” from his body, and an ink pen that was new to the room.