12/23/2013

The Lonely Poet (Short Story)

The lonely poet wanders the streets in solitude, keeping a tight grip on his notebook. He enjoys the crisp night air and the silence of the midnight hours. A slow, leisurely stroll through the neighborhoods of his youth brings a strong sense of nostalgia. He passes the house where his first grade teacher once lived. She has since passed through this miserable human existence to whatever lies beyond.

He has seen the trials of growing up, felt the pain of heartbreak. He stares at his feet as he walks, noting the rhythmic tapping of his shoes against the pavement. There is a long stretch of road without houses or streetlights. Time ceases to exist in the quiet hours of a newborn day. There is only darkness and the wandering mind of the lonely poet. He continues along the pitch black road until his thoughts reach the edge of sanity and he arrives at the brightly lit bench in the corner of the local park.

The bright light pushes away the dark depths of the night sky, but still a storm cloud hangs over the poet's head. He can hear the sounds of thunder claps and rain drops falling in his mind. The energy flows from the dark cloud through his pen and onto the page in thick black ink.

The smooth motions of the dollar store pen creates words that are an art form in themselves. Every word tells, and there is not a word which does not tell. The direct meaning of each word is combined with the style of his handwriting. A quick glance at the page shows the feeling, while a careful reading is nothing short of biographical.

The poet is unaware, but we watch from above as he pours his heart onto the paper. He tilts his head to one side, and a dark liquid falls from his eyes to create words on the page. When he is finished, we see a slight smile at the edge of his mouth, but he doesn't know we've been watching. He's just glad to have emptied the holding tank of his mind, never knowing that the end result serves as inspiration to the world.

He closes his notebook and rises from the bench. The storm cloud surrounding his mind has cleared, and he begins the journey back through the darkness. He reaches the long winding road without streetlights and is blessed with a temporary clarity of mind. By the time he reaches home, there is already a new storm brewing overhead. His life continues, but soon enough the lonely poet will again be consumed by his own darkness, and he will return to the bright corner of the park to rid himself of the raging hurricane that constantly surrounds him.

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