Why Can't He Write?

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Why can’t he write? He has a pen in his hand. He has a notebook full of empty pages in front of him. He’s lying on a comfortable bed. So why can’t he write? The ideas of what to write about won’t be on the light blue, maybe sky blue, or possibly Caribbean water blue walls. His mind certainly can’t get inspired by the poster of Bugs Bunny, Daffy Duck, Sylvester, and Taz playing teamed billiards with money on the line. How could he possibly write about that pile of a week’s worth of clothes that should be cleaned tomorrow? They’re starting to smell. Maybe that hat collection that just happened to grow can give him at least a remote….no, it can’t. What about that stuffed lion? It’s been in his room for years — maybe 5 or 6 or has it been 7? No, it was 4 years ago. Larry is its name; Larry the Lion—how clever. But that silent, shy lion can’t give motivation for a story or poem of any kind. what about the bed he sleeps on, or is it “in”? He inherited it from his grandfather. Did he die on it? What did he wear on it, or…didn’t wear on it? What did he do in it besides sleep? Better yet, going out of his room could give him some creative things to write on, but that would be too much effort. Instead, this bare-chested fellow takes a sip of beer—root beer. His mind wanders to the day before the other day.
It was meant to be a happy day—a day when everyone like him would be addressed as a whole, as one—one group, one voice. So why was he feeling un-happy on that day. Could it be that his friend of 5 plus years is abandoning him or is the situation vice versa? Maybe another friend, this one not so close, treated him like an uneven forth leg—there, but not always needed. Or maybe his sadness was because seeing so many people together reminded him of what he had last year that is gone this year. What if, it’s because as much as he tried to stand out, it doesn’t seem like it’s enough.
He comes back to now and sees a drop of water has appeared on his blank paper, smearing the blue ink of the printed lines. Was it from the glass of root beer? He looks at the glass. There isn’t any condensation on the glass. He sees another drop of water on the paper. Now he knows. He knows why he can’t write. As much as he loves it, he can’t. Every time he has tried, one sometimes even two drops appear. So he decides not to write—not until he can smile again; not until he can have a dry paper; not until he’s the needed leg. He places his notebook on his desk, waiting for that time. Maybe tomorrow he’ll clean his clothes. Maybe he’ll get a new bed. Maybe he’ll give away Larry the Lion. Maybe he’ll paint his room. Maybe he’ll start wearing hats. Maybe he’ll finally leave his room. Maybe.





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