He Remained

He still went up the mountain. At least he still did that. He was halfway up when he looked down at the leaves again as he had done many times before and he began to think there might be something he could write about them if he were to ever write again and so he took out his phone and typed something that would at least bring him back to the thought if he were to ever decide to try to write something about the leaves. He wrote: “It was spring and the snow had melted and the leaves which fell in the fall were now exposed and over time he noticed how they had become broken down along the trail to where in places they were so ground from the traffic that they were no longer distinguishable from the dirt. Though this seemed to be of great meaning to him, he no longer possessed the energy to ponder it any further, but he did, in fact, type it as a note into his Blackberry for he still valued such thought and hoped that the act of doing so would be enough to please whatever it was that had allowed it so that it would hopefully come again.” 

Only the day before he had come to the realization that perhaps he was not a writer at all. He realized looking back that other than the dialog, he simply hated his writing. This terrifying conclusion had struck him nearly at the same point where he now was on the mountain. He panicked and thought maybe he could save himself by writing something about deciding that he was no longer a writer. You know, something like that, He thought. You just turn the shit over on its head. There’s always a way. Or maybe there’s a way to write it with just dialog? Like a play, you know. Like you invent a conversation and you do it that way. He decided to text his friend, the artist, and feel out his take on the whole situation: “Hey, brother. I’m going through the hardest time of my life. I keep thinking, once I get it, it’ll come easily. But it never comes. I think I’m gonna duck out for a while and not even bother with the writing. Too dangerous right now. I’ve realized lately that I can only stomach my writing when it’s done entirely through dialog. Everything else feels false and full of tricks which require talent which has become completely meaningless to me. So where the hell does that leave me?”    

He sent it but then he felt foolish sending it because his friend was a real artist and any real artist knows that these were things you had to work out on your own. His friend never responded. 

He stopped at the spot where the trees opened up and he turned and looked out across the valley where the town he lived in sat nestled between the mountain and the river. The traffic ran across the bridge over the water and he followed it out to where the highway snaked across the land until he could no longer see it. There were no thoughts at this point, only a vague sense of worry. The sun felt warm upon his face and arms. He knew in a moment he would continue on. But for now he remained.