She sits in an old wicker chair from her grandmother. It looks centuries old, as if it was hand carved out of bark from the old peach tree she grew up hearing stories about. The back right leg is centimeters shorter than the other three, and when the chair rocks there is a small creaking sound. It doesn’t disturb her though. In fact, she treats it as company. The sound reminds her of old conversations she used to have, listening to everybody’s problems. She had a knack for that. Listening. Not many people know how to really listen without judgement nowadays. Staring out the window, she could see the kids playing. They would ride around on their scooters, checking their mobile phones, crammed with applications for every social networking site available every five to ten minutes. These children couldn’t have been older than ten. The woman continues to gaze out the window, past the tears in the screen and the smudges on the glass. Lifting up her coffee cup, she takes a sip. It’s empty. It’s always empty. It is chipping at the edges and stained. There is yelling from the children, laughter emerges. Her expression remains blank.
It’s weird, the way people view writers. We’re viewed as brooding, substance abusers, and arrogant. Other writers though, those that write reviews for films, albums, and even food, are viewed as some type of god. Almost as if what they say is the last word.
I’ll admit, I enjoy a nice drink every now and again. I also enjoy getting drunk some nights. I also enjoy going to school and work because I know I can’t make a career out of writing. I don’t typically write like this, I’m more of a lyricists. I’ve only recently started writing fiction again. My problem with fiction though, I never know where it ends.
Everything I write, whether it be lyrics to a song or a story, is all told from my perspective. But does that make it non-fiction? Some nights I can’t tell if I’m dreaming or if I’m actually living in reality. The technology we have today, I don’t remember having as a child (to be fair I was born in 1991).
As soon as I typed in the year I was born, I could feel your facial expressions change. Now my knowledge is limited due to me being 21. I receive this a lot, more often than one would think. Even in classrooms. The place where I’m supposed to be learning and expanding my knowledge, ridicules me for my young age.
I’m not sure where I’m going with this. I just know I had to write it.