The Writer looks around. Her eyes are dark as she observes all those near her. They do not lighten. Then she reaches for her pen, and is drawn into the mysterious world of the Road of a Writer.
What do those words say to you? To me, they are unfathomable depths, beautiful and yet… empty. Meaningless. Because I know not how to use them in context.
That is quite right. I cannot write an emotional scene for the life of me. In my head, it is beautiful. On paper, it is flat. I cannot write it to be more real. Never! though I would wish so to do.
But I am drawn to it. Drawn to writing about passion, love and sorrow. But even more, to write about my own experiences. Changed, yes. Romanticised, yes. Hidden behind another character, yes. But my experiences, nonetheless.
Yet what is the point, if I cannot write it? It looks fake. As if I am one of those people who can sit there, smiling, in golden afternoons. And that is all they do. But I am not. I… I cannot say where I have been, what I have done. Suffice it to say that I have so done. I have defended my point of view. I have been persecuted by others.
Not to say that I am a martyr; not in the least. But I am emotionally disturbed by such incidents. When it goes on long enough, teasing becomes cruelty, destruction. It destroys and has destroyed.
I cannot write emotional scenes. I can only write happy. Yet still I shall try. For is that not the true Road of a Writer?
And the Writer rises without a sound, looks around the firelight and steps out. She leaves no trace of her going, only a whispering wind.