you see yourself

"The boy sat at the table, pen in hand. The chair was beginning to feel like stone now. He shifted uncomfortably. There was very little on the paper - a few scrawls in English of little maturity. Nothing like Shakespeare or Hemmingway. He supposed anybody could write if they wanted to. There was no talent in him that made him special, or so-" The author paused, facing his tormentor, who gripped the beginning with a discontented growl.

"You call this a story? This is barely an introduction. Your language is forced. There is no life in it. You are not the talented writer you think you are. Just because others say so does not mean anything. There is no talent; there is nothing special, nothing unique!"

The boy looked blankly at the laughing figure. The torn pieces of writing floated to the floor in slow arcs. "Why do you do this to me?" He could feel the heated breath scouring his face.

There was no reply as the other paced the room "Why? Let me ask you a why. Why do you persist in this. You are wasting your time and you know that. And you waste mine. You waste my breath. You waste my warnings. Why do you not do more productive things? You have seen the websites. How many other wanna-be writers are out there? You have not even a slightest hint of a chance!" His fist shook the table. The words were mangled and ground through grit teeth.

Tears were forming. "But I always try my best. I try my best, I really do. As long as I do that it doesn't matter what other people say or think." He tries to wipe the wet paper dry, but the ink only spreads further. "But yet, I know. I do, I really do. Sometimes it's so useless. Whenever I try to write, why do people think I write of myself. I don't want it just to be autobiography. They are ideas, carefully thought of... but yet... i have so little time to write... it's so frustrating"

"Feeling sorry for yourself, as always. Self pity is always so pleasurable. And you do write about yourself. You have no imagination. What happened to all the magical stories you dreamt of? The poems you composed on your journeys? You do yourself no good, for you will never listen to me will you? I might as well be invisible. Advice is before you, but you refuse to eat!" The eyes are angry, he too is hurt. He turns and rids himself of the ignorance.

Then the mother bustles in, arranging the table and picking up the torn words, sighing and chiding. "My dear boy, I've been gone so long inside the kitchen and you haven't done anything... is there anything wrong?... And you must stop wasting your time on this scrawling, it gets you nowhere son... It seems like ever since you came back, all you do is stare at the mirror......"

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this little blurby story was not meant to be representive of me. it was actually intended to explore dual personality, sorta like scolding yourself and stuff.... but a bit late... must slp for napfa today, so i cannot continue the story to full depth... wad a waste of time....