Remembering the fall

How could I have forgotten? The city is so tranquil in the glow of the sunlight. How could I have forgotten its beauty, the inspiration for so many untold stories? I suppose I have forgotten myself, become obsessed with having a career, a purpose, a direction rather than flourishing in the joy of being lost and enjoying the journey.

Now I am cursed with remembering, and being aware of what I have become. This is not a case of ‘can we start again, please’ but rather a case of trying to remember how to fill the void, how to quench the thirst to create. I’ve forgotten how to bleed my imagination and spit out inky black words, full of life and colour and texture.

I suppressed it for so long, trying to be ‘professional’ or ‘grown up’, so now… maybe it’s gone. Even as my old fictional friend knocks at the door, I can’t help him. I can’t offer him any aid or purpose, and I can hear him howl and wail and cry on the other side of that door. Would he have been better dead and gone rather than alive and yearning for life?

Decisions, decisions, decisions

[Some crap 100 word fiction I wrote a while back. I tried to make it funny, but obviously didn’t really work]

He paces up and down his kitchen, coffee in hand.

The clock ticks and tocks. The tap drips in time. It’s as if the house has harmonised itself with him, the inanimate objects reflecting their owner – from the faded elegance of the clock down to the grumpy groaning of the furniture.

He knows the decision he makes now will matter in the future. It is vital to make the right choice. A breath relaxes him. He sinks into the seat in front of his computer, rubbing the tiredness from his eyes.

Best to just do it and get it over with.

The decision harrows him again: Times New Roman or Courier?