Are you writing?
The e-mail ended with “PS are you writing?”
It had been five days since he sent her this e-mail. It felt like an eternity as it became a part of the daily routine.
Untwist hair. Check.
Flick through phone. Yup
Brush her teeth. Mmhmm.
and re-read the email…. close window and proceed with the day.
Before those dreadful words, she gleaned his words of wisdom. His encouragements that always sought to inspire. Words like “passion”, “greatness”, and “creativity” amidst phrases of personal value such as “it is lovely hearing from you” and “How have you been?”
It didn’t matter how many times she tried. She couldn’t answer that question and it haunted her every day. Admittedly, the question was simple.
Are you writing?
The keys sat unperturbed beneath her finger tips, but her lies swallowed themselves back into the keyboard. Interrogating her, mocking her: well are you? If he meant literal pen to paper or fingers-to-keyboard: No. Absolutely not. My pen refused to tell stories in this city. Be it writers block or a pen strike, all she had written ended up in a pile of rubbish which she emptied herself to ensure she was never reminded of those epic failures.
Headphones provided more inspiration than any bus ride, child-yelling-to-mother-mother-yelling-to-child and rude teenagers could ever provide. What more could she write: another tale of forgotten youth? Already forgotten. Another tale of love being difficult to find? Story of her life. A romance of epic proportions? To who? A story about a mother who dreamed of more of her child? The mum is probably still dreaming… hers does not cease to remind her. Is there an untold story in this city of over told existences? She sighed. The city lacked inspiration. Maybe she lacked insight. Maybe both. During the war of survival, the day was too hectic to find time to write. Time is too precious a commodity to a system that does not care about one’s personal growth. Time was expensive. Time was 9 to 5. The other hours were filled with pure exhaustion that even the purest of motivations could not overcome.
She looked in the mirror and smoothed her clothes. Checked her phone and proceeded to walk out the door. Perhaps, she should take the time to look around. She walked to the bus stop and decided to pay close attention. As predicted, her walk to the bus area was uneventful, hot and a bother. She watched the trees sway and the dirt kick up as she walked. No one was around her as she made the journey. No people to draw inspiration from. She had stopped in front of one yard because its tree had finally borne flowers. I guess that was interesting. She rubbed her temples…
This is getting to be a bit much.
Inspiration from flowers. No attempt had been made there. Maybe flowers could be a metaphor for life and the tree could be… she stopped herself. She couldn’t quite get herself together.
She kept walking. She was so deep in thought she could no longer make out the shapes of things around her, but she could see the colors. Before she knew it, the bus had pulled up and the day disappeared in a blur.
Another fail.
She entered her home, rubbing her temples. Upset that she had forgotten to write something down. As she stared at her screen, her fingers began to move on their own:
Dear William,
I am doing well! How are you? I am writing, I am writing by living my existence and moving through the world with a constant hope of inspiration. I am writing through me; through my existence being an act of defiance, through the connections I make with inanimate objects and characters I want to know but can’t because they are of another’s mind. If that doesn’t answer your question, I am afraid I never will.
She felt satisfied as she hit send.
She went off to grieve the end of another day.

