A Story I Wroted – By: D.e.e.L
The tick…tick…tock of the clock was beginning to charm every bit of my nerves in the opposite ways of affection towards the noise. The clock now lies on the floor next to my cell phone…with its screen now cracked. Is it morning already?
Glug, that’s the noise my throat would make if I had time to drink anything, but I don’t. I have to leave now otherwise I won’t be ten minutes late to work like I normally am. The car door shuts once I’m inside. The engine starts and the stoner music begins to play…even though smoking isn’t really my thing. During the ride I suck on some of the mints that I always leave in my car for all of the annoying rides my life takes me on.
Once in the parking lot far from reach to where I work I begin running towards the door in an effort to look as if I care to anyone who might be peering out the window in my direction. The door…sometimes locked…and hardly ever opened rips quickly as I pull on the handle. My body dressed in my closets worst clothes walks over to the touch screen that my fingers press upon to type in the three numbers I can never remember when asked outside the buildings doors. Within this building I repeat the same tasks over and over each day the schedule says my name with numbers next to it. Others who work there ask how I’m doing; I know they don’t actually care, so I repeat the same word everyday and just say “Fantastical”. I work wondering what others are thinking, do they assume I am lower because I refuse to switch to another position within the many options I have open? The unwanted of other people is pushed in front of me; I clean it without giving any thought to what I am doing; I have repeated this day over and over for far too many years, yet still I push forward, spending time now to create the world I will inhabit later. AM to PM half of my day is ripped away along with much will to do anything else once I leave.
I step out of the door and become someone else. Within that building I am seen as someone blind to reality, someone who only says humorous idiocy to make others laugh, someone who is no one. When asked outside those walls what I do with the time I spend awake I tell them I only write, I tell them that words are the only thing that matter to me, as they should.
Once home I either clean off in the shower within seconds, or head to the gym and clean off right after. My car pulls back into the driveway of a home free of rent and yet full of debt. My legs fall to each step as I transcend into the basement where I have my room and only place of my own. I throw my laptop onto my bed, I wonder why and how my desk is always so muddled with so many papers and things I’ve never even seen. I lean the pillow against the wall and sit as my eyes gaze at a blank sheet of digital paper, with mind clear of the day, of what I must do tomorrow, of all those that doubt me; I write.
Within my writing I am alone and yet so surrounded. Characters doing just as I would or even going beyond my courage to accomplish things I feel I will only forever dream of. There is never a second in which I think what to write next; my fingers only stopping as I go to take a sip from whatever drink I have concocted. Ideas spill as if I have tipped over an endless jug filled with water; my thoughts existing as if liquid.
My phone no longer vibrates with texts saying “I miss you”, for I lost that happiness what seems like centuries ago. I only pick up my phone to turn on music, or check to see how many people haven’t said a single word to me on all of the different social networks I continue to torture myself with. I flip through things different people are proclaiming to be their lives, so many feeling so alone as I sit reading and wondering if they truly understand the meaning behind such a word.
The lights go out in the room I refer to as mine. I lay on my bed in the dark wondering what time I will wake up to write an idea sparked during sleep. Tomorrow I will wake up and repeat time itself, tomorrow I will tell everyone that I am a writer.