Oh, but when you finally get past all that, and you have your first draft fleshed out right before your eyes, the feeling you will get instead will be close to heavenly.
One Minute Writer:
'Silly birds! Music is for optimists!'
That was the thought I couldn't help thinking when I glanced out my window upon hearing the loud, chirpy tunes of the fair feathered friends that were cheerily resting upon the branches of the huge tree nearby.
You don't really know much about life, do you?
There is too much sadness to sing. Too little energy to waste on trivial things.
I gathered up the remainder of my stuff. I am almost done now with my packing. The room feels hollow now, with all my belongings tucked away into the pockets, zippers and corners of my luggage bags.
I keep telling myself I will miss this place. But then I try to think about what exactly I will miss, and my mind draws up a blank. Perhaps I have been here way too long. Longer than I should have been.
"Sherlyn," a voice gently calls to me and I turn around to see Shermaine standing at the door to the room, leaning on the doorpost, observing me intently. She has a look of concern. She is probably worried about me.
"Do you remember...?" I ask her, my eyes misting up. I try to blink fast enough to prevent tears forming. For now, I still succeed.
"Yes," she says quietly and nods.
I smile and for a moment, am jerked back a few dozen years to when it was. But wait. It wasn't quite that long ago.
* * *
"Play it again!" I gasp excitedly, my voice coming out all wrong as I speak too fast and too soon without drawing enough breath. I realise too late that the words have come out in the form of an almost unintelligible squeak.
"Alright, alright," he exclaims bashfully, and picks up the clarinet.
"Beautiful..." Papa murmurs, and I note that he is staring off into a distant space as he says this.
Mama only claps.
Jester, our adorable beagle, whimpers in his sleep as if in agreement.
Shermaine hums the tune as Shawn artfully blows the notes of the beautiful tune through the instrument he caresses in his strong hands.
The shining hope of our future.
* * *
"Sherlyn! Quick! Get in the car!"
Mama's voice reflects the intensity of her emotions. I pick up my pace and break into a run. I have always been the slow one.
The car speeds off in the direction that only Mama knows. I don't know where we are going. I still don't know why we had to go there.
* * *
The first colour that I see is red. It is everywhere.
His eyes flitter open and shut, over and over.
I hear the clarinet playing. I remember the look on his glowing face.
I remember. I remember.
Shermaine is wailing loudly, her sobs deafening. Mama is dumbstruck and doesn't seem to be able to move.
I am there. But maybe I was somewhere else all along.
* * *
Silence is unbearable. Noise is better than facing the quietness.
Papa clears his throat every so often, but no words escape his lips. I wonder at the lack of them.
Shermaine has the radio on, and the volume has been creeping up in tiny decibels with every few seconds.
Mama appears uneasy with the rising volume. She keeps wringing her hands.
Finally, she yells, "Shermaine! Turn that thing off!"
I swiftly head to my room. Bury my head into the comforts of my well used pillow.
* * *
"I wish they would stop singing," I say to Shermaine as I pick up my bags and head towards her.
"I know," she whispers. "I know."
Abruptly, the singing ceases.
In the silence, we walk down the creaky steps to front of the house.
With one last look about me, I hasten outside, leaving behind us a trail of long memories.