He struggled
every day to put words on paper that reeked of whiteness. The rest of the world
only saw the finished product all wrapped up in a colorful cover and smelling
like drying ink. They didn't see the endless hours of digging back in time
trying to awaken the memories that only appeared in fragments and an occasional
smell. The
readers flew through the pages absorbing just what their minds let them do, not
always seeing the whole thought.
The days of no writing to him were unbearable as he strutted around his study
believing he had lost the gift, pouring himself into a bottle and passing out
hoping to dream the next chapter. Days became weeks and then months as progress
continued tearing at his heart and the search for words that once flowed so smoothly. He did finish the book after
twenty-seven months of joy and tears losing a part of his mind that spoke then
died. A Book is only as good as the reader who takes the time to taste each
sentence and either savors it or spits it out forgetting it forever. He placed
the book on a shelf with others he had written alongside a picture of himself
as a young lad of twelve. He was holding a book in the photo with a caption
that read "Local boy publishes first book "He knew at the flash of the
camera his days of being normal had vanished into the vault of memorieswww.facebook.com/mikeoconnor-author
www.michaeloconnorwriter.com
#raw emotions
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