The writer surveyed his surroundings with a keen interest. From the child’s toolbelt strapped carefully onto the table to the pile of dishes that awaited their routine clean. He took a contented sigh and began to type, slowly at first, but gaining in speed. The words flowed forth from him as though taking on a life of their own. At first he felt in control, but after a while the sentences seemed to flow naturally from one into the other without needing so much as a gentle nudge in the right direction.
This was living for the writer. The world around him reduced to a single line of text. A single string of letters held loosely into a solo form representing so many emotions and feelings. This was the power of words.
Power. He pondered the word for a moment, mulling over how poiniant it was. He tried to take an example as he wrote. Home. A word which even though it is only a solo word, conjures up images of family and of happiness. A word that inspires feelings of warmth and excitement. And within seconds he was absorbed in the word, lost in its being. He could smell the gentle scent of baking in the oven and the soft humming of his mother soon filled his ears. It was then at the hint of sadness took over.
These were not his images of home that took over his thoughts. His mother didn’t bake, and rarely had a song on her lips. His home wasn’t particularly cold, but didn’t inspire warmth either. He figured that was the curse of a writer, being able to fully immerse yourself in fantasy. And that was his downfall. His expectation for more.
Since a child, the writer had felt incomplete. He likened it to christmas eve, that anxious excitement at the future prospects. But this anitipation had no relief. He could not quench this desire for more than what he had, some higher meaning or purpose. And by the time of his humble writings, he had learnt that this feeling would forever be a part of him.
