Inspiration

The cursor winks at me, constant, mocking.

I stare forlornly at the white virgin snow of the page awaiting the footprint that will begin the journey. I’ve been huddled in this dark stinking room for six long weeks, feeling it slowly shrink around me as I battle with myself. A paragraph here, a line there, an idea scribbled in my notebook then discarded angrily onto the overflowing pile of rancid detritus in the corner. Trying so hard to will a spark to ignite, to grasp at something from the very air around me.

Before she had left it had been so easy. I would wake, ideas pounding through my head. With steaming coffee at my side I would sit and the words would flow from my fingers as water from a tap. The ever increasing mountain in the astray marked the passing of time. She would stand quietly in the doorway, watching me at my desk, alone, as the hours passed me by. The soft tapping of keys and cigarettes the only sounds as the pages swelled before me. I would fall exhausted into her warm soft arms at night knowing that my dreams in the darkness were destined to become my words in the daylight.

The days had stretched into weeks and then months. The end was tantalisingly close, always just a hairs breadth away as I raced towards it. People were waiting for me to finish, publishers, editors, my fans. I could not stop. Meals would be taken in silence as I re-read past chapters, made notes and corrections. I never saw the tears cloud her eyes as decisions were made, the tightness of her mouth as she willed herself to act. I saw her as I saw the bed, as I saw the chair; simply blurred items that I would pass, day by day at the edge of my consciousness.

I awoke to her pain the same day I awoke to her note.

My imagination has drifted away through the open door that she left. My words are my lifeblood, they feed and clothe me. I prostitute myself for the adulation of the faceless. Without them I am nothing. The cheques that once fell like autumn leaves through my door have become as scarce as the ideas that gave them birth.

I stretch and the cracking of my back echoes off the sparse walls. I chose this place to be free of distraction, free of the phone calls, the droppers by and the endless emails all wanting to know what was next, wanting more and more. Never content with what I'd given just what I had left to give. I thought alone, unbothered I could find peace, find myself again and it would come again. But instead of a place of serenity, an oasis in the whirling maelstrom that is my life, it has become an anchor around my neck dragging me down into the depths of my own self loathing.

A lone window I have allowed myself, an only view into the needful world beyond. I peer through the murky glass to the life outside. A river snakes through the valley off into the distance. Would that I could follow? Above the hills the grey/white clouds drift slowly across the sky, icebergs floating across an endless sea. I can hear the songs of the birds as they soar overhead. A smile touches my lips as I admire the simple beauty.

A glimpse of red just above the fence line shakes me from my reverie. Squinting to counter the glare of the morning sun I make out a shape, a person, coming this way. My heart starts thundering in my chest, sweat soaks my hands and the blood rushes through my head in crashing waves. I told him I needed space, time to finish. I can’t be rushed. As he gets closer, I swallow against the dryness of my throat and try to slow my breathing down to calm myself as I realise it is a hiker, nothing more. Some company may be what I need, inspiration to smash through this mental obstruction. Wiping my hands on my trousers I pick the breadknife from the table and reach for the door.

With the staccato drip of the coffee machine in the background and the cigarette smoke billowing gently up from the crammed ashtray I glance over at the bloodied rucksack in the corner and at my silent friend. My fingers fly across the keyboard.