A Writer's Companion
I sit cross legged, leaning back against the screen, and wondering if I've slept or if I'm sleeping now. In the distance, if distance is the appropriate word, shades of gray fade gradually into deepening obscurity. Exploration has yielded no reprieve from this expanse. Is there no escape from this existence, no release from my tortured memories? If I had known then what I know now I would have walked away from the terminal and never looked back.
It began with a simple desire to explore my capabilities as a writer, but quickly grew into an obsession as, day by day, I spent more and more hours bent over the keyboard. I was searching for that perfect phrase, that novel idea, or that heart wrenching story that would touch the soul of the audience and prove to them what I'd suspected all along; that I had greatness in me.
I think back to when my wife and I married, and long to recapture those moments of passion or even the mundane familiarity that was robbed from us by this infernal machine. I vaguely remember how it was with her at the end, how she pleaded with me to stop, and how I foolishly ignored her requests. I was only dimly aware of her departure that day when her disgust with me became too much for her to bear. If her leaving mattered to me at the time, it had been only a minor consideration. Ironically, it was my desire to provide for her that drove me to my present fate.
As the months passed I became more connected to my work, and at times I was able to assume the persona of one or the other of my characters by closing my eyes while my fingers fluttered over the keyboard with apparent mindless abandon. I found that by opening my eyes only slightly and concentrating on what they would look like, I was able to see those characters and sometimes hear the dialogue that I was creating. After my wife left me, the only time I would rise from the computer was to answer the door for pizza or Chinese food delivery, or to relieve myself when absolutely necessary.
I ignored the knocks that came intermittently at the door from the creditors who refused the online payment of the bills, and before long, only those services I truly needed to continue my work were paid for. The small and dwindling inheritance from the untimely death of my uncle had enabled me to continue my writing, acting in my mind as divine intervention and the ultimate justification of what I see now as my private mania. I disregarded hygiene as a pointless endeavor, and was eventually as inured to my own odor as I was to the buzzing flies that claimed the kitchen as their own. When fatigue overcame me I slept in my chair, unmindful of the effect that this self-imposed abuse had upon my body.
It was an unfamiliar feeling that gripped me on that night when my world changed forever and confined me to this box. I had finally done it, at last attuned to the tale and genuinely part of the story. Whereas before I had been merely an observer, I was now able to affect a reaction from the players in my drama. I didn't know if it was due to some special talent I possessed which enabled me to change the incorporeal world into tangible reality, or a dormant ability that all possessed which could become functional given the proper motivation.
Whatever the cause, at least in my estimation, my efforts had been rewarded with what most writers would consider the ultimate opportunity to explore their creative potential. I no longer required the trappings of conventional journalism, as my every notion was transformed into the perfect representation of my mind's intent. I was freed of the tedious delay of transcription, able to alter my tale at the speed of thought. The possibilities of conception seemed endless to me at that moment, and my success assured by this newfound gift. As I sank into tranquil oblivion on that final night, it occurred to me that this could be my best night's sleep in a very long time.
I awoke with a start from my dreamless slumber to what could only be described as a place of unadorned dreariness. Utter silence reigned in this space that was devoid of substance or dimension. Indeed, when I tried to talk only stillness attended, and when I looked down at where my body should have been, all that was visible was an unbroken backdrop of gray. My ability to affect reality had deserted me, as if taunting me with its promise of notoriety only to end up punishing me for my extreme hubris. I was now living every writer's nightmare, lacking the tools to create, doomed to an unending existence of mediocrity and malaise. Absorbed by the machine, which I had cajoled those many months into producing my opus, I was helpless in the face of an event beyond my understanding.
My wife returned only to gather those possessions that were forgotten in her rush to escape my neurotic influence. Her love for me had perished over time, slain by the fixation I had for my writing. When she entered the apartment the stench proved overpowering and she opened all the windows in an attempt to dissipate the smell of my sweat and corruption. She had no way of knowing that I could see her from inside my prison. An ironic twist of fate had provided me one last glimpse of my true love.
Walking into my office, she gazed at the inanimate object of my obsession with hatred and revulsion, not seeing me hammering on the inside of the glass. The computer had been like an adulterous lover, one that negated competition, capturing my affections more completely than she ever could. She stood there glaring at it, and I assume that she was picturing herself reducing it to splinters of plastic and glass. Knowing her, that would be an admission of failure and something of which she was incapable. In a way, it was too bad that she didn't act on that impulse, because destroying it would have provided the release that I so desperately yearned for. When she left, all hope left with her.
It wasn't until the rent went unpaid for several more months that I received another visitor. When the landlord arrived to reclaim his apartment, he too stood in front of the computer, perhaps drawn unconsciously to my plight. I knew from our conversations that he'd never understood the importance of learning to use a computer and preferred doing business the old fashioned way, with a handshake rather than a written contract.
As he stood there looking at the computer he mumbled to himself about having to get rid of other people's junk, and about how some were unbelievably inconsiderate. He loaded the terminal, with me inside, into his car and dropped it off at the local landfill, buried beneath a pile of papers and trash.
I sit here now, or walk this featureless landscape. I have only my memories to remind me of my prior life, and a future that promises only bleak monotony. This tale exists only in my mind. I give voice to a silent scream that even I cannot hear. I would bear witness to the danger of obsession, but there is no one in attendance. I am alone in the gray, unable to write, unable to feel. Be warned, cling to what love is provided. Step away from the monitor and escape my fate. There is no fellowship here, and no writer's companion