The writer who never writes can never be complete. I have no idea if someone has said this but it came to me . I have been getting opportunities to really be a writer , at least a solid novice writer and I am scared so I either procrastinate on purpose or is there more to my fear of writing ?
I have never learned how to type properly despite it probably being a simple practice yet I find my fingers going all over the qwerty working and some how making the brainwaves that are my words into reality. Go Brain!
The world is strange and unusual. I find myself lost in a relationship and with friends and yet I am so happy about these moments I forget to document them the same way I documented my misery. Thankfully I have photos yet what is the sense that the emotion that gives me pain I remember yet the simple , chill moments I always wanted -I ignore or barely give a moment to reflect. I am Twisted !
I am dabbling with writing. I made a vision chart before arriving in Italy 2 years ago. My goals are to be a photographer, a painter, a yogi, a lover and a writer.
So this is me writing…
Aero woke from his nightmare, sweaty and thirsty. He wanted to pretend that it was not the same nightmare that had been haunting him for months. He shook of the feeling and wanted to quench his thirst with a glass of water that he usually kepts on his bedside table. The glass was not there. He thought his mind was playing tricks on him. He was absentminded; however when your parents were psychoanalysis thought retention was learned before the alphabets. I did put a glass of water here, where did it go, he thought.
He slowly sighed, and figured he would go to the bathroom for some water. He swung his feet off the bed only to feel a strong tingle in his feet traveling up his spine and ringing in his head. He didn’t drink that much last night; he was the designated driver. He took baby steps with his hands outstretch heading to the bathroom adjusting his eyes in the darkness shaking the sleep off his legs.
The bathroom was filthy; he hadn’t done laundry in weeks. He maneuvered to the sink only to realize the faucet wasn’t working. “Great! this moment is really getting annoying. He contemplated going back to bed; however the thirst was overpowering him. His nightmares always drained him. The only consistent memory involved a crow cawing and flying around his head. He needed water; he sighed and headed to the kitchen.
The kitchen was downstairs. The steps were very old and wooden that exploded with noise with each toe touch. This house has been in his family for years, every inch reminded him of his parents and Jess; he painfully missed them. He always felt guilt for their death; if only I wasn’t abroad this summer I could have stopped what happened. He saw it in his sleep for weeks. His nightmares were not really nightmares but premonitions; he took them lightly back then. If only he understood then what he did now, if only.
The kitchen was very modern; his dad had made many upgrades to it. All his friends said it was pretty cool, in fact there’s an appliance that turned tap water into carbonate water. He felt tears filling his eyes when he turned on the lights. The table was still set just the way his mother loved it. He touched the setting like fine silk, chasing memories of all of them together in this very room. How Jess would put baby carrots in her nose and scare mom. He wanted his family back. His hangover began to throb in his temples and the cawing became louder, the room began to spin.
He fainted. He felt something gently scrapping at his face; it was Pluto their tiger cat meowing. He sat up and pulled Pluto close to him, stroking his head. Aero felt the thirst again, stronger even. He stood up and got a glass of water while holding Pluto. Once he gulped the last drop he realized Pluto shouldn’t be at home but in a cage at the veterinarian since two days ago for quarantine. Then what am I holding; he thought. He slowly looked down.