He was reading "All That" written by that dead writer who killed himself at the helm of worldly indifference. Before that, he read "Amundsen" by that Canadian short-story writer. And there were others before these two shorts. For reasons unbeknown to him, his intrigue ceased as he strolled halfway into a short. Only his resolve to finish the unfinished was having him going on until their ends. He was so out-of-touch with pen that tiny muscles in his palm were beginning to yelp at sudden pressure the pen was exerting on them.
He long stopped having a tale to tell his world. When there's no tale to be told, narrative dies a lovelorn death. So it almost did. He was being delighted at the discovery of new sites that offered him endless avenues to newer unknowns of the world. He was being actively passive. So passive that he almost inherited a collaged perspective with nameless individuals contributing countless miniatures of perspectives.
Ask him what he had & he did what he had been doing. He kept to the silence & rejoiced in its warmth. The warmth was so comforting that it made him numb to bugs & their bites. Only the early morning's blood blobs, as small as those biting bugs, on his sheets, dried & stained on his calf muscles and ankles, spoke of the sucked blood. The blood was composed of ambition to explore, seek and write.
Sure, there were occasional attempts at reigniting the lost passion to write. But to write, he was in need of exploration. All he found were faces, inexplicably happy at the dusk of Fridays & predictably gloomy on Monday dawns. They were the very same faces, gesturing at him with their grimaces, perhaps welcoming him to join their mindless madness of living from one more dawn to dusk.
He sat down to write this with an obstinate rejection to join the herd. He once again determined, indeed staunchly, to keep writing. To stop the blood for being sucked out of him.
