posted on Jul, 19 2018 @ 06:51 PM
I missed the contest but I just couldnt Not write this.
They've asked me to speak about my life, these reporters who barged into my home. Dont they know I'm dying? I suppose so, thats why theyre here.
Don't they know ive said all the words I can? That I laid down the pen years ago? Just let me die in peace.
I croak this to them, but they dont care. I wonder what interest they have in me, I shut myself away when the inkwell ran dry and my muse disappeared.
This was many, many years ago. They say that in my absence, people found my words. Many people. Well its not like I hid them. Still, I feel a light
spring in to my heart, just a spark. I feel a new man.
I had thought to give up words, feeling they had abandoned me, feeling the things I had written just went to waste. But there- is that a flutter, in
my throat? It passes- I no longer have the reflex with which I used to speak words written in the wind.
It amazes me to think that words could still live inside me after So Many years. For a moment, this is all that matters, even though my aching hands
cant even pick up a pen anymore. I feel her, my muse, just as if shed never left.
Perhaps it was my own despair that blinded me. Yes, thats it. I gave up. I gave up because my worrds obly brought me more pain, since I could bever
use them. I gave up because no one else needed them. I gave up because I forgot about wtiting for the sake of writing. Whats that? Oh, the reporters
are still here.
" Yes, I'm elated that I finally got recognized, but cant you see? In in the middle of something more important. My muse has returned. No, I don't
have another poem, thats not what matters. You dont understand, the muse isnt a word for the process of writing. The muse is creativity itself. All
these years, ive wasted away in bitter despair, thinking creativity drained from my heart, and my joy and purpose with it.
But shes here! She's here for me. Now go away, and let me rest in peace. Ive said enough. "
I feel the old familiar pull, the call to write. Except this time, it is I that cones to it. Ah- it is better than I ever dreamed.
So died [redacted] at the age of 82, autbor of many stories, poems, and writings which have helped shape the world into what it is today. He lived an
entirely uneventful life, and, in the end, we see him clearer in death, through the words he left behind: "I breath in gasps of ink and in the unity