Another Sad Song
I've got troubled thoughts and a self esteem to match.
Sadness is said to be a form of inspiration. You pour all of your sorrows and every burden that weighs down your heart onto a single sheet of paper, one flimsy page to contain all of your fragile thoughts, and supposedly it leaves you feeling lighter, happier, like a weight has been lifted off your chest. It makes sense really, defogging your mind and letting the heartaches cascade down to the page in the form of words, jet black ink flowing in the place of tears. Writing is a coping mechanism, but not to all.
It used to come so easily, the words just materialised, constructing sentences of their own accord, no thought required. All the old songs just... happened. Somewhere along the line, he'd pluck a word from somewhere and a phrase from somewhere else, and they'd end up with something with the ability to inspire even the most hopeless of cases, and yet here he was, unable to motivate himself to jot down a single line. Something had changed and he didn't know what. He wasn't sure he even wanted to know. All his strength just seemed to be seeping away, bit by bit, until every last drop of energy he had left had been drained from his body, leaving him weak and tired, silently coaxing himself into giving up.
The clock ticked off each passing second. It was broken, it had been for many years, yet the hand still moved, softly clicking between each number. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Come on, Sean. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. You know you can't do it. His hands clutched at stray strands of blond hair, tearing at it and groaning in frustration. He had so many expectations piled onto him, all completely unrealistic ideas, absolutely unattainable goals. He was just a man. That's all he was. Feeble, delicate, hopeless, but above all, incredibly human. He was no hero. The pedestal he was perched on was simply too high, and sooner or later it was going to come crashing down.
The words in front of him blurred until they were nothing but an indistinguishable haze, illegible drops of ink in an indecipherable pattern. They were meaningless, much like anything else, and he found himself just pausing, the pen in his hand falling to the desk with a resounding clatter, staining the page black, drowning out every word written on it, and for some reason, that came as a relief to Sean, almost as if the pressure had vanished as the ink crept along the sheet, devouring letters as it went. He knew it wouldn't last, though, it never did.
Just as predicted, the nagging voices returned, whispering to him, taunting him. He couldn't even perform the simplest of tasks, something that was supposed to be second nature to him. He knew exactly what he wanted to say, the exact message he wanted to convey, but the words seemed to lose themselves and get tangled in his web of thoughts, refusing to lend themselves to his pen so he could vanquish them and ensnare them in a sentence or a paragraph, as long as he could rid himself of them somehow.
His lips tugged up at that thought. He'd stumbled upon something, he was sure of it. All he wanted to do was eradicate the things that were causing him such anguish. He was so preoccupied with the thought of ridding himself of them that he never took a moment to consider how he would do it, and it seemed so simple. The answer had been right under his nose the whole time. You know the usual tales, right? Tortured artist, slave to their craft, unable to cope with the pressures of life. Well, everyone knows how they end...
The smooth metal was almost a comfort, the cool sensation spreading through his forehead practically a blessing. The shot pierced the air, a deafening crack echoing through the empty, silent, and most recently, lifeless room. Sean's head fell forward, a mass of blond hair almost hiding the wound for a moment, making it seem as though he could - just maybe - be sleeping, until the red seeped through, blending in with the ink drenched page. There were all but a few words remaining on the page that could still be read, even with great difficulty, and I guess those words were showered in heavy doses of irony.
"Never give in, hope is all we have."
It used to come so easily, the words just materialised, constructing sentences of their own accord, no thought required. All the old songs just... happened. Somewhere along the line, he'd pluck a word from somewhere and a phrase from somewhere else, and they'd end up with something with the ability to inspire even the most hopeless of cases, and yet here he was, unable to motivate himself to jot down a single line. Something had changed and he didn't know what. He wasn't sure he even wanted to know. All his strength just seemed to be seeping away, bit by bit, until every last drop of energy he had left had been drained from his body, leaving him weak and tired, silently coaxing himself into giving up.
The clock ticked off each passing second. It was broken, it had been for many years, yet the hand still moved, softly clicking between each number. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Come on, Sean. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. You know you can't do it. His hands clutched at stray strands of blond hair, tearing at it and groaning in frustration. He had so many expectations piled onto him, all completely unrealistic ideas, absolutely unattainable goals. He was just a man. That's all he was. Feeble, delicate, hopeless, but above all, incredibly human. He was no hero. The pedestal he was perched on was simply too high, and sooner or later it was going to come crashing down.
The words in front of him blurred until they were nothing but an indistinguishable haze, illegible drops of ink in an indecipherable pattern. They were meaningless, much like anything else, and he found himself just pausing, the pen in his hand falling to the desk with a resounding clatter, staining the page black, drowning out every word written on it, and for some reason, that came as a relief to Sean, almost as if the pressure had vanished as the ink crept along the sheet, devouring letters as it went. He knew it wouldn't last, though, it never did.
Just as predicted, the nagging voices returned, whispering to him, taunting him. He couldn't even perform the simplest of tasks, something that was supposed to be second nature to him. He knew exactly what he wanted to say, the exact message he wanted to convey, but the words seemed to lose themselves and get tangled in his web of thoughts, refusing to lend themselves to his pen so he could vanquish them and ensnare them in a sentence or a paragraph, as long as he could rid himself of them somehow.
His lips tugged up at that thought. He'd stumbled upon something, he was sure of it. All he wanted to do was eradicate the things that were causing him such anguish. He was so preoccupied with the thought of ridding himself of them that he never took a moment to consider how he would do it, and it seemed so simple. The answer had been right under his nose the whole time. You know the usual tales, right? Tortured artist, slave to their craft, unable to cope with the pressures of life. Well, everyone knows how they end...
The smooth metal was almost a comfort, the cool sensation spreading through his forehead practically a blessing. The shot pierced the air, a deafening crack echoing through the empty, silent, and most recently, lifeless room. Sean's head fell forward, a mass of blond hair almost hiding the wound for a moment, making it seem as though he could - just maybe - be sleeping, until the red seeped through, blending in with the ink drenched page. There were all but a few words remaining on the page that could still be read, even with great difficulty, and I guess those words were showered in heavy doses of irony.
"Never give in, hope is all we have."
♠ ♠ ♠
Um.I'm sad and this is short and it's fucking terrible and I hate writing but I feel really shit and idk man sighs