'The time has come,' the gentleman announced, 'to write a novel grand. My Opus Magnus, for the world to admire and satisfy my every demand.'
Sweeping a well manicured hand he cleared an imaginary desk of its non-existent clutter so that to the parquet floor there silently crashed a telephone, pen holder, paper, pens, and other things not there.
Across the expanse of the sun-soaked room his Alter Ego silently laughed, rested his wine glass on a passing hare, and gently clapped his hands in appreciation of this sudden, determined act.
A while later, after a little time, when his fingers have gripped around his quill so tight they feel like a vice, the reserves are depleted and so, rising from his authorial pose, he catches a tortoise and to the sideboard goes.
'You know,' he says in desultory tone, 'I think I'm having some trouble.'
From far away through a pinkish haze, his other self returns the gaze.
'Yes, some trouble. My enthusiastic burst, has popped my creative bubble.'
He stands entranced in sorry muse and languidly wafts at a passing cloud. He strikes a passing swallow, that tumbles and lies at his feet, in a small wooded hollow. A tear wells in his eye, as he gathers his victim in his palm.
"I have killed beauty. O worthless, hapless fool!"
Sorrow pervades the air, bitter tasting on the tongue. On the far settee a small child in black weeps for the loss of life.
Then comes a tweet, a twitter. The swallow flaps a bruised wing, flaps once more, and takes off in dizzy flutters. Across the sea it speeds away, easing pain in fluid flight.
"Lo! A miracle! Oh joy. Oh happy."
Through the portal of glass the sunshine pours, striking the clouds to expose their linings of silver. The swallow is consumed by its brilliance, disappearing in swooping song.
"What had been dead is not. Merry, merry."
The rejoicing is echoed across the room. Waves of joy spreading out from the figure on the chintz chaise-longue.
"I have come to think I may have been wrong, about my writing, you know. If what once I thought was dead may live again, could not my words retake their flight and soar above our heads?"
He dresses in his best smile and boards the waiting train, returning to his desk, returning to write again.
Once sat again on comfy stool, he looks upon his desk covered with papers, strewn in patterns unrecognisable. Upon these sheets there lies the words, the thoughts, the ideas. Hewn from imagination the imagery remains unconstructed, the building blocks of thought scattered around the construction site of craft.
Pulling up his cuffs, he reaches for the quill. Time halts, the world is still, and in that second of peace so true a flash of insight cuts through. Incisive and deep, it exposes the heart, leaving no doubt or confusion; it reveals only the conclusion.
Looking from this rainbow's end, he questions his-self on that other side, "What a folly. What a fool. Do you know what I have done?"
His Ego returns the vaguest of shrugs, the blankest of smiles playing across his fading lips.
"I tried to write a story, not realising we already are one."
words and art by stuartcturnbul; art created in openart.ai
