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I wrote this one evening with a plan in mind but it was edited and rewritten so many times I’m not sure what it is anymore… I thought it would be a waste if I didn’t post it as it did take me some time to write.


A musician sat slouched at his desk, the flickering, yellow light from his table lamp the only source of illumination in the studio room. Sleep had evaded him for days on end, the artistic muse being responsible for his restlessness.
His heavy eyelids had just dropped down, his dazed mind still stuck between the blurring lines of consciousness and sleep. He could still feel the warm light from the lamp on his eyelids, making him see red through translucent skin. Meanwhile, half a dozen unfinished lyrical thoughts mingled with reminders of deadlines and mental notes to go grocery shopping, shave and leave the house to avoid insanity.

He awoke with a start feeling as though he had been plucked from the depths of darkness and instead of being awakened gently by hair-like sunbeams filtering through cracks in the windows and doors, he was attacked by white hot light straight through the eyeballs. Staggering from his desk with squinty eyes, he took wobbly steps to the bathroom and promptly fell on top of the sink grasping at the tap and spraying himself in the face with cold water. Splashing his face with water he began the laborious task of untangling his thoughts. 

By the time he finished brushing his teeth and shaving his face he had planned out two coherent thoughts. First, he hadn’t eaten since lunch yesterday and so he needed food. The second, he needed to finish the song he was working on today before pesky management and the record label started their weekly phone calls to encourage, bribe, threaten and beg for new material.

The local cafe satisfied his hunger, the quality of the food being mediocre but filling. Scribbling on the greasy paper napkin next to his plate, he decided on the spot that he would finish this pain of a song before leaving the cafe. It was a symbolic thing he figured, he needed to get it all over and done with just as he had done with his breakfast, no more thinking up new ideas, no scrapping and restarting. He had the music finished pretty much, the lyrics could be thought out in less than an hour if he really tried.

The pen in his hand felt heavy, but as soon as he had finished a line of writing the weight of it began to lighten. He was familiar with this process, it was something that happened on all his final drafts. Soon enough he was in a haze, a flurry of mental activity which overwhelmed his mind and words, words and only words were all he could see and feel.