Musings

 I gave, in a previous post, an arbitrary number of how much I had written after I started writing every day. The numbers were a bit off: there was more of everything than I thought at first. A friend of mine asked me when everything I wrote would be viewable, and my initial answer was "never". I've always written more for myself (unless asked to write something) than for any sort of public. But I thought about my answer again a few times, and figured something. The thought went along these lines: "hey, I might as well show what I've written to someone, because what's the point if no one ever sees any of what I write." I don't much care for showing stuff I've written to people, because in my opinion what you write tells a boatload of who and what you are, and I play my cards pretty close to my chest most of the time. But to hell with it, here's a little something. Mr. Fox, you can blame this on yourself.

This is more a musing than a short story, with nothing more than a character in a still picture. Make of it what you will.

Writer

He sits in his chair, leaning his head on his hand. The chair, like everything in the room, is rather cluttered: he cleans when it occurs to him to do so, but might just as often simply leave everything lying where it is for ease of access later.

He's not what you'd consider attractive, but he's not ugly either. His body is lean, and when he moves he brings to mind a bow, halfway pulled, or perhaps a bit-too-tight string on a guitar or a bass. He has a tousled head of hair that never quite settles acceptably, leaving him with a constant somewhat bemused look, as if he'd just got out of bed. His face is memorable, but the edges seem a bit too sharp, the hollows a bit too deep, as if he's a rough of a sculptor rather than a ready-made piece.

He lifts his eyes now, up from the paper he's been staring at. Around him and the paper, scattered on the tabletop are bottles of ink, slipshodly capped, a few half-burned candles, a leather-bound book and some more papers, others with somethink inked on them, others seemingly white. Next to the paper in front of him is an inkstand, with a bottle of dark blue ink and a quill. The quill is a work of art: beautifully sculpted, reddish wood with details and flourishes all along the grip, with an embellished metalpiece at the end.

He doesn't seem to be looking anywhere: his eyes flick from the halfway opened window to the edge of the cealing, the closed door, the piles of clothes and books on the floor and finally seem to settle on some point in mid-distance. He stares into space for a few moments, then closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. He sighs, rubs his face with both of his hands, sighs again and grabs the quill. He unstoppers the ink bottle in the stand, lowers the quill to the brim of the bottle, then hesitates. He holds his pose for almost fifteen seconds, then sighs once more, shakes his head and places the quill on the stand. He stoppers the bottle again, gently pushes his chair back and unfolds himself.

He's a tall man, and "rise" would be the wrong word to describe the way he unseats or rises from the floor. He stands up quite like a marionette when its strings are pulled, unfolding almost on spot. The way he looks around after getting up gives a feeling of constant worry that he might, without intent, hit something or somebody. The same care is given to his movement, with his eyes always travelling a few feet infront of him, checking everything and everyone so as not to cause commotion. Of course, from time to time he will slip into deep thought, and his eyes will stop watching his path. At those times, he will retreat into hisself and, unconscientously, bump into people and objects, mutter an apology and carry on: rather like a sleepwalker among waking men.