Cummed. Clear head.
On the balcony: view of the sea at night.
“Why do you write?” asked his girl from inside, still lying on the oversized box-spring bed.
“Why do I write? Because… I hate people. And because I love people.”
“You hate people?”
„I hate the state of humanity.”
“So you think you can change people through your stories?“
”That’s one of my motivations. That’s why I do it.“
”Isn’t that naive?“
”I don’t think so. And I have no other choice.“
”But that’s certainly not the only reason, is it? There must be more…“
”Of course there’s more! I just… I have a lot to say. On a small scale and on a large one. I want to give people certain things. Help them. And as long as that is the case, I have no other choice either.“
”Would you like to come to me?“
”I still have some writing to do.“
”But then I’ll fall asleep without you!“
”Baby! I’ll come later.“
He took his notebook with a cover made of bookbinding linen and several ink rollers out of his suitcase. Black ink. One-millimeter line width. Two bottles of beer from the fridge. He placed everything outside on the extendable wooden table.
“I’ll say goodnight then…” she said.
There should still be time for a goodnight kiss, he thought, went back inside, and gave her one, as well as a slap on her bottom, before he closed the curtain to the balcony so that she could not watch him.
He placed the burning tealight in its glass holder near the open notebook, and the billowing soft shadows moved to the beat of the candle flame over the empty, lined pages.
Over the wired headphones – music from the cell phone.
Three large gulps of beer.
The first sentence. And another. And half a one.
And then his cells began to vibrate with the creative act.
Creativity.
As a conduit between these two worlds – the invisible one and the one before his eyes – he felt his purpose. The reason for his existence. Completely in tune with his passion and what he did best. The only thing he could always stay calm doing, without freaking out.
Writing.