He was turning out to be the person he wished he would never become. He was terrified of the boredom he was experiencing daily. It was as if he had nothing to do.
“The last book, I wrote, was five years back,” he told his close friend.
It was never published. Truthfully, none of his books were ever published. He had written a few books, some of them he could never convince himself to send to the publishing houses and while the others he had sent were kindly rejected, though he didn’t know because he never got a reply and he forgot it all with time.
“It is alright. You have a few ideas in your mind, right?”
“Yes, I have but they mean nothing till the time I start working on them. They have to come to life to mean something,” he desperately put forward his agony.
“Then work on them.”
“I can’t. Whenever I turn on my laptop and open a word document to type out the words ready to pour out of my soul, I end up typing not even a single word.”
“Why is it so?”
“It is because I feel doubtful either about my ideas or about my capability of working over them.”
He sipped his tea but didn’t pick up the almond cookie, even though he wanted to and rather just looked at it with a morbid sincerity.
“You are no longer enjoying your writing, are you?”
“I haven’t been writing. So, how can I tell?”
“It is okay. Take some time. And may be then you can join a creative writing class.”
“I am old now and there would be kids there.” He finally moved his hand towards the cookie to pick it up; it had lured him into a desire to consume it.
But his young friend’s hand was swifter and she picked it up and gobbled it down and his hands remained in an awkward position. It was the last cookie.