A Relaxing Endeavor

“Where to start,” he pondered aloud. It was a question searching for the precipice of a great wonder to be slew from his mind and onto his screen through the route of his fingertips, ultimately taking its place carefully organized onto a crisp piece of paper to be delicately stared at to return the words to the mind via the fingertips of a different individual. Filled with angst, the writer felt the light tapping of his fingertips hitting the keyboard rhythmically, tauntingly. He stopped. Annoyed, he leapt up and walked with a dutiful step to the fridge to acquire a simple delight to help him with his efforts that had yet to begin. He retraced the path back to the guest room he doubled as his office with his dim but salutary light awaiting to assist him with this majestic work that would be created very soon now. The lamphead creaked its neck and stared at the computer a mere foot and a half from the screen, angled curiously around the side of the shelf attempting to block its view. Anxiously, almost captivated, the light held its gaze on the blinking cursor. Unmoving as it was, it represented everything, albeit nothing. The writer sat back down, popping the tab from his cold refreshment that would serve to ease his torment and assist with assembling some words onto the face that stared back at him, agnostic and doubtful of its significant employ this evening. A crack of the knuckles, swish of the crisp elixir, and reassortment of body into the whining desk chair was all that was needed to revamp this determined man back into the brawl. Curious, though, was the sensation of something he had forgotten that although not of serious consequence, certainly would serve to distract him from his obligation at this desired hour if he did not recall it and deal with it, or at least, write it down to be handled properly at a more convenient time. Five minutes passed by as he struggled to focus even on the attempt to remember what it was he had now subconsciously erased from memory. It was too late, it was bothering him now and would not allow him to pass through the gate of concentration without his attention being given it. Rightfully so, he convinced himself. Ten minutes gone so quickly? Forget it, it must not have been of any importance. Finally gathering up the strength to put the required weight into a key to push it into existence on the screen, he begins to move. Suddenly the door opens and in comes rushing the dog. Jauntily, he skips a step and leaps on the bed, licking his chops and peering sideways at his beloved owner. Annoyed, the writer gathers up the dog and respectfully whisks him away and firmly shuts the door. Returning to his seat, he struggles to regain his composure along with his thoughts, now scattered. Realizing he hasn’t lit a candle, as is his custom, he rectifies his error hastily, counterintuitive to the purpose it serves to calm him. Taking a deep breath and his wife springs open the door letting the dog in to announce her departure for a bath. Unsettled, he acquiesces to his dear his willingness to watch the dog during her absence. Leaving now, she can be heard stepping through the warm house to the bathroom where she is followed by the click of a door handle and a running of water. The dog runs from the room, leaving in trace a mess from what was a few seconds prior a fine display of tomorrow’s outfit. Missing as usual with this type of ruin, is a pair of socks. A brief leave of absence from the chair returns the socks and the clothes to an organized pattern with the dog out of sight. Not out of mind though, as he whines and scratches to be let outside for his duty, lest he need to remind the writer of what true destruction looks like and creates his own work of wonder on the new carpet for the tenth time. The writer escapes from his assignment and hurriedly allows the door open for the canine. An ambient and gentle breeze brushes his face but he has no time for leisure outside. Closing the door, he returns to the desk. Exasperated, he tries to focus. The refreshment that started in the fridge has found its way to temptation and he must relieve himself. Not to mention, the dog is barking at nothing as his own duty has been done. Once again rising, the writer allows himself his own relief and lets the dog back inside. He should have done it in that order as now the dog has caught his collar on the door handle following the writer into the bathroom and accidentally ripped open a drawer. Drawing himself loose, he not so hesitantly reaches his nose into the cabinet and drags out a spare toothbrush before being corrected by the writer and shown his way to the living room. “Everything that is bound to corrupt the writing process has now been fulfilled and the lords have been entertained for one night more,” said the writer, “now I may begin.” The man is alone at his desk, where he belongs; where his back hurts, his body slowly dampens from the nervous sweat, the clock increases its ticking exponentially, the mind gives up nothing of consequence like a disciplined captive beheld only in a physical sense, and the candle with the wooden wick that he loves so much begins to hasten his worry of incompletion despite no deadline. A man dedicated to meeting the minimum requirement, he finds it amusing he works so tirelessly to even begin. “What is another day, but another day?” he asks himself aloud, smiling needlessly. Doggedly, our writer begins typing. His words, comically, follow his thoughts exactly: “This has been a work of fiction, insofar as it has been completed.”