When will you stop writing? She was all against his impulsive attitude to writing. He was not in a listening vein. He was sitting in a chair on the corner of that room, fragile and tired. Yet he was determined to write. He was half awake, half sedentary. Yet he tried to absorb all the energy possible from that chair. He sat in oblique angles, moving his center of gravity to all possible trajectories. What is center of gravity? Whatsoever, it was something of grave consequence to this little earth and of no consequence to this writer in focus.
What was he writing about? His tiredness. His doldrums. His empty wishes. His nomadic illness. Yet he was unable to transition from one thought to another. He just dwindled about the happiness of clinging to a no man’s land.
He penned down many irregular rhythms. Music was missing all throughout. She left him to lurch in this cacophony. All things looked grey and gone until those hours. His chair broke down into multiple pieces of four, as if center of gravity proved its existence. He was floored. Papers spread left and right. He looked at the walls. They were waging a tough weather.
He was not sure if she would listen to him again. Hence he decided to sleep over the papers and a spoiled pen. Nothing much could have been written. Walls continued to stare at the anemic shade of the floor and he was quite contended in his futile encounters.