Nothing To Write About

Nothing To Write About

By Spiral Breeze

    She sighed once again after she drained her cup of coffee.  She had been sitting there at the table with her notebook for so long that it had become cold.  Again, and again she had nothing to show for her wasted time and cold cup of joe.  Not a single word, unless you counted the date.  She always dated the page.  Sometimes she even put the time, just to see if she could later go back and figure out if there was some “magic” time for her.  A sort of twilight writing hour where some of her best work ran smoothly across the page unfaltering, but she had yet to experience that, or maybe it had simply been too long.  When was the last time she wrote anything other than a boring journal entry?  At least she didn’t comment on the weather!  That would perhaps be the end of it.  Time to move on, pack up your pens and paper and notebooks: you’ve been evicted.  

    She laughed at that.  Sometimes she wished they could be evicted, but they owned this house and her husband made sure he always kept ahead of their mortgage payments.  How dull.  She wondered briefly what it would be like to miss a payment or two and go into foreclosure.  They’d never be able to get another house, not in this market.  Maybe that’s what she wanted, to rent again.  To let some other idiot deal with it all.  To not have so much space and absolutely nothing to do!  All she seemed to do was sit inside all day.  It was as if the larger the house, the more gravity it had to suck you in and keep you there, never attempting to spit you out.  Unless, you happened to go into foreclosure.  

    She did miss their old apartment.  It was small, tiny, the whole studio could fit into her living room twice with room to spare.  How cozy it was!  She would sit by the window on rainy days to watch with nothing but the sounds of the city as her music, page after page would manifest from her steady and effortless hand.  There was this energy to it all.  It breathed the life inside her and allowed her to in turn breathe that life into her words on the page.  Her best work had been written in that tiny studio apartment in The Village.  

    Her eyes watered thinking about it.  She became angry when she thought of herself trapped in this house.  Sure, she could leave physically, but she’d have to come back, she had the children to think about.  Her adorable brood.  They too had called that small space home and it was home.  Her daughter had taken her first steps there and her son had been thrilled to be living near mommy’s school.  Yet, as her husband made and saved more money, the opportunity presented itself, and with a growing family, a small studio wasn’t exactly an ideal space.

    She felt as if a part of her had died.  She missed the culture, art, music, her work suffered.  At any moment of the day she could look out her window and watch culture step confidently across the cobble stones in a pair of Jimmy Choo’s.  She herself could never afford a pair, nor would she actually want to wear them, but it was the fact that she could watch other people.  A constant parade of sights sounds colors, even noise, yes the city was noisy: a cacophony, but it was her symphony!  The one she missed hearing so deeply in her soul.  

    She sighed again and stood from her chair at her desk that faced a soundless garden.  She stretched her arms and glanced down at the empty page.  At least, she knew what to write about now.

The End