When speaking fails, written words speak
The Role of a Writer
I sigh as the face of the clock reads 4:03. As the morning rays start to shine through the exposed windows, I notice a sheet of paper on the counter. I am sure it wasn't there before.
I approach it and examine the contents. They are words. Different words of my every thought and feeling. I hear the door open and turn to face my mother. She has a very content smile and gestures towards the piece. I decide to read it. My lips start to form into the pronunciation of each word, but I hear no sound. I look up, my eyes glazed over, and notice my mothers facial expression. She is disappointed. I try again but, to no avail, it is hopeless. She leaves. Clearing my eyes from unshed tears, my vision starts clearing and I see a pen. I grab it, and start to write.
As I finish I decide to show my mother. She seems to come to terms about the incident but I can tell she is still a bit upset. I hand her the piece, and wait for her reaction. Slowly, the corners of her lips turn upwards and she hands me the paper. There is something different. My eyes let go of the tears as I look back up at her.
`I am proud of you.`
I approach it and examine the contents. They are words. Different words of my every thought and feeling. I hear the door open and turn to face my mother. She has a very content smile and gestures towards the piece. I decide to read it. My lips start to form into the pronunciation of each word, but I hear no sound. I look up, my eyes glazed over, and notice my mothers facial expression. She is disappointed. I try again but, to no avail, it is hopeless. She leaves. Clearing my eyes from unshed tears, my vision starts clearing and I see a pen. I grab it, and start to write.
As I finish I decide to show my mother. She seems to come to terms about the incident but I can tell she is still a bit upset. I hand her the piece, and wait for her reaction. Slowly, the corners of her lips turn upwards and she hands me the paper. There is something different. My eyes let go of the tears as I look back up at her.
`I am proud of you.`
♠ ♠ ♠
The role of a writer is not to say what we all can say, but what we are unable to say - Anaïs Nin*Not the inspiration. I found this quote and thought it pretty much summed up my drabble.