The writers block grips his mind like a Chinese finger trap to unsuspecting digits, and each time he tries to conjure up anything from the once large archive of creativity he finds an empty vessel. Nothing. It was never like this at all in the many years he devoted to his art, and he cannot understand why its like this, but its just the way he’s found himself as of late, lack lustre and devoid of inner culture. He sits at his desk and stares at his laptop, an open word document with nothing written on it is what is glaring back at him. He anxiously looks at the blinking cursor and finds himself slowly losing his grip on his patience. He’s hopelessly lost in his mental impotence.
"How is it going, my love?" she asks from the doorway, where she inquisitively pokes her head through. She has warm features, deep eyes that hypnotise and a cheeky smile that infects others with happiness. She has on a brilliant summer dress, a vintage number compromising of a gray and white hounds-tooth pattern with a large tie-up belt, a clear favorite in his books, as he adores how she looks in it.
"Not good. I think I’m done. Fried. Toasted. Zonked. Royally fucked!" he replies, in a breathless tone that carries his frustration easily. She could hear in his tone that he’s trying hard to swallow a pit of despair, but the quivering voice was a dead give away into his anguish.
She breathes deeply from the doorway and walks in, and places herself at his side and rubs his back, she can understand his frustration and feels her touch can offer some solace. He turns and looks at her, and smiles shyly, an unspoken thankful gesture he does appreciate indeed.
"Look hon" she laments, "these things you can’t rush, you can’t force it, they need to happen naturally, like things like love chemistry and fate". She gives an odd look, like the last sentence she said was closer to being tacky than it being beneficial, but then she changes face, approving of what was said and enjoying the unplanned wisdom.
He loved it. That sentence. He loved how it was said, how she carried it, how bashful she was expressing it, and most of all, he loved how it came from her, the woman who lit a spark within him and fueled his desires and dreams. He kissed her lovingly and passionately. He exhales calmly and feels a surge of energy in his mind where emptiness resided, something that was missing for a little while.
"Thank-you, my love. Now. Get the fuck out, I have some shit to write!"
He slaps her on the behind as she leaves, and chuckles at the situation. She saved him yet again, and he knows it. He just hopes that she does too.
She closes the door after she walks out, and smiles to herself. She loves that man, and his idiotic ways.
She doesn’t know it, but I’m absolutely losing myself on the inside about her departing.
It’s like a cold lump of sadness that I’m forced to swallow, and to hide under my sunny facade. She doesn’t know.
The last 8 days have been just amazing, exploring a new world with her has been indescribable. Gravity was defied, boundaries were abolished and I fell deeper for her than I could imagine.
But she has another flight to catch the day we return, but she’ll be back soon. Not before me wanting or needing her more since she’s not around.
I know one thing for certain, I’m going to be her welcoming party, the one that will sweep her off her feet and not want to let go at all, not even an instance.