NB: The picture above has nothing and everything to do with the article below. Believe what you may.
He sat behind the old desk, his head tilted slightly backwards. In front of him was a dusty typewriter, dusty but still visibly quite new. It was his latest indulgence, one that had proved to be wasteful. He had found himself too hooked to the old school pen and paper to leave it now. Indeed, he was even now holding a pen and an old beaten diary, staring at the ceiling without really seeing it. His thoughts were both near, and far away...
He wanted... no, he needed to write. But it was in times like these when his ideas were not completely pieced together, when the whole could not mentally be seen from the parts, that he wondered if it was even worth it. Yes, he loved the thrill of enjoying a beautiful finished work. But first it needed to be started, and that was the actual problem.
This part of writing caused him great pain, pain which he could not describe even if he tried. It was partly mental, partly physical, and in some confusing way, it was also neither. Like he was weak due to mental strength.
But then what could he do? Writing was almost literally, his life. All he had known since he was little were books, and soon enough he had started making them himself. He had written so much so that sometimes after completing a certain piece, he had wondered if there existed a story he hadn't yet conceived. But then they had kept coming. When he laid down to sleep, when he went for a walk, when he ate, even when he answered the most serious call of nature, pieces of potential writings had strayed into his head. And he had written them all, or maybe most of them. And writing them was slowly consuming him.
He knew something had to be done, he couldn't continue this way. His thoughts drifted to the saying about writing being weary for the mind. Or was it books they said? He couldn't remember, a result of too many books and too much literary creativity. But he was sure whatever was said could be applied to what he felt, yes he was sure. He closed his eyes, and involuntarily he started tapping on the old diary with the pen...
Whenever he wrote, it felt personal in some way. Even if he could not in any way relate with the character in his work, it still felt like he or she was him, and in some way this seemed to take something away from him. Something he never felt like he ever got back. Something which he didn't know if he wanted back, but all the same worried that it was gone.
It was ironic. That he felt this much about it, yet he still sat here, in front of this same old desk, armed with the same tools that drove his madness, with the same old intention to consume himself a little bit more. Indeed it was ironic. For he was practically trying to quench a fire by stoking it.
But then he knew. Deep inside him, down where it hurt the most he knew. That there was no other way. It was simple. The problem was the solution, and the solution was the problem. To quell his pain, he must write. And to write, he must be pained. There was no in-between. He knew what to do now, and he knew exactly how to do it.
So he opened his eyes, and on cue the tapping stopped. He bent forward, brought up the old diary atop the desk, and flipped open its pages. On a rumpled new page, he scribbled a new title...
I WILL WRITE NO MORE
