Stories Unwritten

Perhaps I am unwell, further sickened, most notably by the fact that I write too much–or do I not write enough–and how will the story end?

I sit here in this dusty room, the sun’s last dying rays filtering through the grimy windows, casting shadows that dance like ghosts around me. The typewriter stares back at me, a silent judge of my excesses and inadequacies.

The bottle on the table is half-empty—or is it half-full? And who the fuck cares?

The whiskey burns its way down, a reminder that I am alive and still feel. Outside, life hums its usual dirge of misery and madness, a constant backdrop to the solitary symphony of my damn existence.

I think about the stories written, the words spilled like blood on the page. Each one a confession, a scream in the dark. Too much, not enough, always the same damn questions. But the answers? They elude me, dancing just out of reach like the fleeting affections of a passing lover.

The typewriter remains silent, the words stubbornly trapped between my mind and fingertips. Perhaps they are afraid to come out–to face the same scrutiny I face. Or maybe they abandoned me, leaving me alone with my thoughts and the ghosts of stories that might have been.

If I smoked, I imagine the smoke from the cigarette I lit would curl up in lazy tendrils, blending with the shadows of my room. The clock on the wall, ticking away, indifferent to my struggle, each second a reminder of my mortality.

And how would the story end? I don’t know and don’t fucking care.