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The pencil made a soft scratching noise as I pressed it into the paper that was threatening to rip with each smooth movement of my hand. I paused periodically, trying to find the right words. This would be my most important story, no, the greatest achievement in my life. Just a couple more sentences to go before my hand will be able to rest and I can finally sleep peacefully again.
My grip tightens on my pencil as I cross my T’s. With one final swoop, it was finished. I slam my pencil down in triumph and stare down at my work. There’s no rush like I thought there’d be. I feel oddly underwhelmed. This isn’t right, I should be feeling satisfied, full, complete, or whatever other synonyms you’d prefer to use. The urge to cry and scream is strong yet my exhaustion is greater.
I sniff and groan as my gaze wanders to my window and the people outside. There’s a young woman marching down the frosty street, dressed in a wool hat and gloves, her chestnut brown hair is sitting around her shoulders. A phone is pressed against her ear and she speaks into it with a smile on her face. Who’s she talking to, a lover or family member perhaps? And why is she walking outside in this weather? What’s her job? I have so many questions for her but she’s gone in the blink of an eye, turning the corner.
I sit and stare out the window for quite some time, watching people pass by. They all look so different and live so differently. After a while thoughts of my writing and those unpleasant feelings take over. I lean back and shut my eyes, wallowing in my misery and failure, allowing it to consume my thoughts and time once more. My precious time, wasted once again. It should have been perfect. I did all my research, read countless books, watched hundreds of movies, yet it still wasn’t enough. I spent weeks alone in the perfect conditions to create something spectacular. I turned away other opportunities, poured my heart out over and over again. After all of that, I still have nothing I like.