A Page

I woke up with the urge to write. It was a beautiful day: the sun shining brightly on the outside, its rays infiltrating my room through the window. The birds were chirping, the trees were dancing in the cool breezy wind. I was tempted to go outside, but the urge to write fought against my every muscle and kept me pinned to my bedroom floor.

While making coffee, I started thinking. Ideas were flowing in my head like fish in a pond. But nothing concrete came to mind – just the urge to sit down and write.

It’s a funny feeling to experience. Like pouring water in a cup until it overflows and starts dripping. Or better yet, like a time bomb ready to explode.

I went back into my room. I sat in my desk chair and gazed at the ceiling, at the floor, at the beautiful nature outside. It was a pure and vivid manifestation of life; the trees, the animals, the road, the cars, the people. But I wasn’t part of it. I was alone, in my room, sitting in my desk chair, watching it all unfold in front of me, taking it all in: the view, the smell, the sensation.

I drank my coffee. It was scolding hot. I put it aside and decided to drink it later.

I looked over at my laptop case. It was closed, as if it was taunting me, daring me to open it. But I had read into its evil plan, and I wasn’t going to fall for it.

I paced my room. I looked outside my window again. There was life outside. The birds had changed position and found a new tree to sit in, but they were still singing.

I returned to my desk. I sipped my coffee. It was still hot, but not as much as earlier.

I put the laptop case in front of me. I grabbed the zipper and slowly moved it from one side to the other, like someone tearing a sheet of paper in half. The case opened. I was aware I was falling into some kind of diabolical plan, a scheme to keep me busy and away from the life happening on the outside. I was in a whole new world, eclipsed from the fascination of the outside world and its inhabitants. I opened the laptop. I turned it on. It made a small sound, similar to that of a small engine. It was an old laptop.

I looked at my coffee mug again. I wanted to sip from it, but I decided it was still too hot and opted not to.

I opened the word processor on my laptop. An empty page appeared in front of me.
It was a large page, but it was devoid of anything and everything. Its emptiness scared me. Here it was, taunting me again, inviting me to enter its mysterious world at my own peril. It was telling me to leave everything behind: my room, my floor, my window, the birds, the trees, the sun, the outside, the world. And here I was, dubiously following, fighting back the uncertainty urging me to do otherwise.

I started typing. Some words appeared on the screen. They felt like cheers coming from a huge crowd, urging me to carry on doing my thing. I typed some more. Faster now. More words appeared on the screen. Soon they turned into a sentence. And another. And another. And another. After that they became too many to count.

I flashed a smile on my face. It wasn’t an intentional smile – like the one a scam artist would show after duping his victims – or a fake smile – like the one a person flashes to mask his sorrow – but rather a natural, unforced smile.

I felt relieved. I felt at ease. I felt in the right place; the kind of place that feels like a home or a comfort zone at least.

I stopped writing. I turned to my window. The pale rays of the sun were caressing the floor of my room. I scoffed at them. I looked outside and saw the image of birds sitting in a tree, singing noisily. It was a terrible, dull view that looked nothing like the one that had enchanted me earlier. I looked at my coffee again. It felt cold. I tasted it – it was cold. I didn’t want it anymore. I decided I would throw it away.

What had started off as a beautiful day in the outside world had turned terribly awful and boring. My only consolation and pleasure were sitting nicely on the screen of my laptop, black-over-white.
These words were as magical as spells; I had become charmed by them. I could see now that I had fallen deep into the trap that was set for me, with no means of getting out at my disposal.

This page had become my world – it was my world versus the outside world. I realized I had made the crossing and traded the extravagant life of outside for the warmth and company of the words in front of me. I had quenched my thirst for writing. That urge robbed me of the fascination of life outside my room window. It allowed me to bathe in the magnificence of the language written in front of my eyes.
I suddenly felt tranquility in me. Like a raging beast that was finally put to rest, or a rampaging creature that had entered a deep slumber.

The craving I felt when I first woke up had disappeared. It wasn’t the sun, nor was it the birds or the coffee. It was the writing. But how can something so banal carry such fantastic effects? The answer, as it seems, will forever be hidden between the lines of that written page dwelling in the confines of the old laptop.



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