Thank you for all of the commentary and views of this piece of writing…any other thoughts would be greatly appreciated…
© Chuck Duboff
The words had been hibernating, awaiting rebirth. Tea, substance, floral, nourishment, trauma…they had been dormant, comatose, averse to expression. Silently they resided in his brain, awaiting activation.
Vince lay in his worn bed, head throbbing, nausea coming in waves. He knew he wasn’t sick, but rather unable to cultivate life. The depression had consumed him for months and the bed became home, safe and warm. Writing had been the gift which had been bestowed upon him. Writing was his soul’s nutrition; books came naturally and Vince had always seemed to have a purpose in life. A new novel, adventures imagined, characters born, plots flowing…this was his life.
“Tired of lying in the sunshine, staying home to watch the rain.” Time…Pink Floyd’s masterpiece…seemingly on repeat in his wandering mind. Pink Floyd, Syd Barrett, Vince’s muse.
But this life was gone; he had lost his raison d’être. The writing…
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