Fragments Gallery
Distracted
Snow falls slowly outside my window. I find myself turning to stare at it constantly. I have work to do, I'm trying to continue this story, but the snow is just so mesmerising. I can't keep my eyes away from it for long.
Maybe part of me just wants to avoid working on this story before me. No I’m definitely avoiding it. It's a story about letting go. Letting go of the past, releasing those dreams for the future which are no longer possible. Maybe they never were possible, either way it hurts.
I have always had trouble letting go.
So, for the moment, I'd rather stare out the window into that cold flurry of flakes. They spin slowly as they fall and softly land upon the blanket of snow already coating the outside world. That world is growing harder to see now. Over the past hour the window has slowly misted over and eventually the mist will fully obscure my vision. I guess that could be a good thing; it would force me to pay attention to my work.
Probably not, I'd just find another distraction.
I turn back to the page before me after numbly watching the white fall for a while. A half page of script in my crooked writing sits on the desk before me. I stare at it blankly, at that white paper marked with blue ink, and try to remember where I had left off. The pen lies unevenly beside the page so I pick it up and scribble on a corner of my sheet to get the ink flowing again. The pen feels right in my hand. Typing on a computer is great, but nothing compares to the feel of a good pen in your hand as you guide the ink onto the page.
Here I am, distracted again. A half page is all I have written in the couple hours I have sat here. I should have much more than that. If only I weren't so distracted this would be so much easier. Or maybe not, this kind of story needed to be told but never seemed to grow less difficult.
This story before me has been on my mind for a long time. Inspired by recent events it… touches me. Writing this story is as painful as it is satisfying. Even though the events of the story don't reflect what I have been through, they certainly ring true enough. I know that others may not see them that way but I can easily see the connection. But then… I'm the one who know this story best.
The memories resurface and I close my eyes. Darkness envelops me. I focus on my surroundings to push away the memories, it's a simple exercise but one that takes longer than it normally would. There is much on my mind.
I'm alone in my office and the house is empty other than my cats, so silence reigns. The single lamp on my desk illuminates the room; I can see its glow against my eyelids. I can feel the cold radiating off the window before me. The scent of old books reaches me from the book shelf behind me and the lingering aroma of coffee rises from my now empty cup.
Alright, I tell myself, time to get this done.
I take a deep breath and my eyes flutter open. The pen begins to glide across the page and words form in my messy handwriting. I know now what to write.
Finally, I can finish this.
Unnoticed by me the mist continues to climb the window. When I finally lean back, the pen once more sitting beside my small stack of papers, I can no longer see the outside world.