The Writer's Block

‘Tonight, I shall dine in hell’ he said with conviction as he drew apart the curtains. Another long summer day… long enough to derive some useful work of expression. However the past few weeks were spent in tossing and moaning in bed all afternoon, caffeine and music at nights and a bunch of complaining neighbors the very next morning. Raoul didn’t seem to get past the first chapter he’d written; often wondering if that too should be deleted. Today he decided to approach his thought processing a little differently.

            For an hour he tidied up his ‘shrine’; a cozy corner desk facing his French windows. He decided to clean a bit around it just in case during a trail of awesome words, his eyes would fall on clutter. Midway arranging the snacks he’d need for inspiration, he glanced out the window and saw her. Across his loft, the morbid households were allocated, but suddenly they didn’t seem so anymore. Her open white curtains brought the glow to the tall wall of congested windows. He’d probably never seen her, and no amount of tracing back brought that ‘something’ that she carried. Raoul slid into his ebony chair while she sat on a wooden stool, legs dangling and hand positioned at her neck. She was examining the canvas in front of her, brush in the other hand. She looked like a prefect picture of ease and passion and yet her lips twitched with dissatisfaction. The more he looked at her, the more words he found to describe her every move, even when she did nothing more than brush back her hair. ‘She is it’ he mouthed slowly running his cold fingers across the keys of the typewriter.

‘She is my muse’. With a smile struggling to spread all over his face, he pulled his chair up close and started typing away to glory. He wrote nothing of her, but every word was connected with the thoughts she invoked. He occasionally applauded himself, and when his thoughts were losing momentum, one look her careless grace put him back on track. He didn’t know why he found himself waking up at twilight, lightheaded and fingers sore.

‘As if one can fall asleep of thinking too much’ he muttered to himself and he fixed his glasses. Her curtains were closed now with soft yellow light peeping and her easel was kept half against the window. But, behind it he could see her twirl around in a flowing dress, ladle in hand. He presumed that she was cooking her dinner. Raoul sighed happily and flipped on the switches to the unexpected sight on the floor. He couldn’t believe it. 

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