Fiona was stuck, paralyzed in a state of utter bewilderment. A moment before she had been so eager, so ready. She was going to write, and write, and write. “Until her arms were numb, until her shoulders had ached”, she thought. But now there was nothing, her brain felt empty – unfocused. How was she ever going to become a writer if whenever she prepared herself to write nothing came? How was she going to entertain the world, confess her life to them; communicate with them? Slowly, she put down her fuzzy blue pen and gave a long, air-filled sign. Gazing silently she observed her, at first glance, cluttered and pell-nell desk. Then, as though they had been compacted into a solid ball at the base of her head, memories began to melt and course through her brain very slowly.
The picture frames filled with Colgate smiles, the old while dandelion paperweight that had once been her gram’s, petals from old roses (her favorite flower, if only they came in purple) strewn here and there. Again, she sighed. She had been so depressed lately, so lonely – these objects made her smile with pride and warmth. Then, among the small trinkets and dust, her eyes fell upon her most prized possessions. The books were very old but extremely beautiful in her pale eyes.
Then, out of nowhere, it happened. A force so powerful it practically knocked her senseless had, once again, taken her. Stories, long complicated stories about a thousand things flooded her mind. Her imagination ran wild. She had to write it down NOW. For the second time that night she picked up the blue, fuzzy pen and positioned it over the lined notebook paper. But again she paused – how was she going to begin? By the time she’d sort out the proper beginning the tale had lost its luster. Like the other uncountable sheets of paper from before, she crumpled it all into a ball and shot for the trash can, just missing by a few inches – it was hopeless.
Where the hell was it? A pen, any pen – she needed a pen. In a matter of moments her neat, tidy room had become something reminiscent of her best friend Fiona, but unlike her very messy friend forever she, Eliza, would just clean up later. She pulled out drawers and disheveled papers. When she still couldn’t find a pen she headed straight for Teresa, her roomate’s side. Teresa wouldn’t mind, she never did.
Eliza opened the top drawer. Her searching stare fell upon, not what she had been looking for, but at that moment, something better. Quietly she opened the bag, broke off a piece of chocolate, and almost piggishly stuffed it into her mouth. She just stood there for a moment, allowing it to dissolve. How was it that everything was so much better when you weren’t supposed to have it? Carefully she folded the bag and stuffed it into the far back of the desk. A process her friend had forgotten in haste – which brought Eliza back to her search for a pen.
Nevertheless, she could not find one. Slightly frustrated, she sat down on her bed and put her head in her hands. The next moment she wanted to repeatedly smack her head against the wall – there was a pen, right there, on the floor. In fact she had been playing with that same pen when all this had started. Duh.
It was pink, small, and had four different colors of ink. It belonged to a friendly of hers, Patrichia, who had accidentally left it there a few days before.
The radio brought her back to what she had wanted to do in the very beginning.
*drawing of a boat and the wind shaped like an eye*
Eliza liked to illustrate songs. This was just a rough sketch; it would make a great painting one day. Too bad everything for her was answered in those two words – one day.
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