At Last

Crumpled pages littered the dingy, taupe carpet as well the thoughts in disarray belonging to one oblivious to the notion of order. Years had lapsed into decades, and decades peeled away like so many pages of a spent calendar. To reminisce of better times seemed redundant in the mind of a pseudo-intellectual whose masquerade fooled only those of initial contact, soon dissolved by their absence.

The day rushed towards a synchronous climax as a yellow moon was reflected in the pools of water along the stretch of road leading to a dead-end street; where an unattended mailbox yearned for activity. Within the walls of a modest abode, an old man struggled with the ending of his latest attempt at publication. It is said to pursue your dreams, a muted laugh slipped through his lips at the thought of such nonsense; yet during the daylight hours and well into the night the clicking of his typewriter could be heard by the ghosts that lingered in his mind. Perhaps tomorrow became a nocturnal comfort, used as a lull-a-bye to lessen the sting of rejection and somehow convinced the weary author of a talent misunderstood by those void of understanding.

A new day found the author seated upright in his bed, drinking coffee while he enjoyed a cigarette and glanced at the television across the room which retired from displaying images years earlier. As the hands of the clock turned in their fashion, and repeated trips to refresh his cup, a short walk took him to a room where imagination was welcome and never scorned. His thoughts searched the vast resources of memories tucked away in archives, carefully filed in subconscious order, awaiting instruction from the creator of their origin. Somewhere among the holiday gatherings, conversations held with siblings, funerals attended, weddings avoided, and a host of images mingled therewith, his mind tuned into a pattern of thought where a successful text surely would be found.
Both day and night were spent compiling the information needed to convey his philosophy to be used in the manuscript; the need for sleep was replaced by the necessity of completion, soon the dangers of such denial began to appear with subtlety.

With weeks behind him the manuscript lay in completion atop the oak desk and the author began the painstaking task of finding a publisher to accept his work. Query letters were written, telephone calls made, but over time the rejections became plentiful, and the opportunities few.
Crumpled pages littered the dingy, taupe carpet as well the lifeless form of the author, whose blood did pen his epitaph of completion; at last.