He sat there, clicking the cap on his pen. On and off, on and off. He stared out the window at passersby, not noticing a single one of them. It was as though they were extras on the most boring reality show. But then again, real life is never as entertaining as Reality TV.
What exactly he was staring at nobody could guess. Perhaps it was his way of brainstorming. Click. Click. Maybe he was waiting for inspiration to strike, just like he’d spent his life waiting for God. Click. Click.
The thought occurred to him. I need to drink more. The muse seems to bless those who offer themselves to alcohol. She hides like a genie, waiting for someone to discover. Three wishes granted to the one who empties the bottle.
He smiled. He’d never been drunk a day in his life. Unlike most children of alcoholic parents, he didn’t share in the family tradition. The bruises were enough of a deterrent. Still, there was some twinkle in their eyes as they remembered past humiliations. Alcoholics always seemed to have the best stories.
The blank page mocked him, unwilling to give up her secrets. He forced himself to recall bit of advice. The first job of writing is to write. Write what you know. It was all he could remember. He though about what he knew.
School. From the time he could remember, he was told education was everything. And like every naive child, he swallowed the lie. Elementary school. High school. University. Now he’s a teller at a bank. That’s what you get for studying English. But at least he had fun.
His pen touched the page, leaving a small blue dot. The page was no long pristine. It gave him a perverse pleasure. Nothing should be pure. Innocence lost. God’s gift to humanity that we’re so eager to throw away. It’s never truly appreciated until it’s gone. Then we loathe those who are still in possession of what we’ve lost. We eagerly rip it from them so they join us in our misery.
Friends laugh at him. They still think he’s a babe. They’ve seen things that make him cringe. Things that make them mature, worldly. He refuses to believe them. They never felt the business end of a bottle shatter across their face during a drunken rage. Innocence is relative.
He focuses on the people walking by the window. They all look busy, like they’re filled with some hidden purpose. Maybe a few are still innocent. For his sake, he hopes so. Watching them scurry across the surface of this part of the planet, he felt small. And stupid. He really had nothing to say.