The Returning

“Well...it’s now or never.” I said aloud pressing the bottom of my retractable gel pen and hearing the click of the tip popping out of the comfort of its home.

“I know how you feel bud but this is for the best.” I slowly and carefully wrote in the top left corner of the college ruled paper the date and took my ruler and pencil and made a box enclosing it. I was very meticulous and then titled my head from side to side to see if it was crooked or not. I could hear in the back of my mind a little voice saying, “You’re already procrastinating Bartholomew. The border does not need to be straight.” Yes, yes my dear consciousness. I know I’m just stalling but patience is the key to successes. If we rush and don’t do things in an orderly fashion, everything is gonna go downhill. But, I gotta say, my handwriting has really turned to crap without writing for so long. Jesus, I can barely even read it. It just looks like a bunch of squiggles. There goes my amazing cursive skills and you know who I blame? Technology. Making everything be on screens and typed instead of using one's own hands to write. I mean sure it’s efficient, I’ll give you that, but I don’t know. It just doesn’t really feel authentic. If you know what I mean.

I took my ruler again and drew a straight line in the blue box near the top. It looked like it was dead in the center. Maybe off by a couple millimetres but meh. Whatever. I really did miss the feeling of gripping a pen and moving my hands in such a way to create words on the paper. It was a nice soothing feeling. Moving your pen up and down. From side to side and all around on that blank lined page. It felt magical...Wow okay. Now that was really cheesy, but I mean, in a way it was true. My pen was like an instrument that brought life to the words I wrote down. A story would unfold from all the words. Of magic and adventure. Of crime and mystery. An entire new world would be brought into creation and it would all lie in that sheet of paper and then another page would be added and then another one and then another one until I would have written an entire story that lied in those lined sheets of paper. I would be the creator of that world wielding the pen which is mightier than any sword. Gosh. I really did miss that feeling. It felt surreal...I think? I don’t know. I can’t really describe it, but I guess that word does fit closely to the mixture of emotions I feel when I write. Honestly though at times, it feels indescribable. I wonder why I ever even stopped or took a break from writing? Oh right. Because of that incident. Yeah...good times. Good times...Well, with that said, I really should begin to write now...okay...anytime now…

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Shit…

I just stared at the page in a daze. My mind was a complete blank. Void of all thoughts and life. It was a barren wasteland. Gosh darn it! I knew this would happen! “Haa.” I exhaled a deep sigh and took a sip of my lemon-ginger tea. There was absolutely nothing I wanted to write about or could for the matter.

“Damn it! This is absolutely hopeless.” I agonized and placed both hands on the temples of my head and stared into the paper as if the answer was right there and it would magically appear. At the rate I was going, my eyes might just burn a whole right into the paper itself. I kinda wish though it did.

“Maybe I should just give up…” I mumbled under my breath now breaking away from the staring contest with the paper and lifting my gaze to the ceiling.

“I gave up before. Why bother doing this again when I’ll only just be hurt once more…” I trailed off. I closed my eyes and the horrible memories I kept at bay by immersing myself in school and work started to surface again once more...

“Why on earth would you want to be a writer?”

“It’s absolutely worthless.” 

“They don’t earn much.” 

“Are you in a rebellious phase.”

“You’re going to major in computer science and that’s final.”

“I don’t want another worthless child. We already have your sister and look how she ended up.”

“He takes after his grandfather.”

“He’s just as useless as his mother.”

“Women should be in the liberal arts and men should be in science and engineering fields.”

“You call this a story. All I see is shit on a paper.”

“You won’t make a living with what you want to do.”

“Is this how you repay us?”

“Don’t bring shame to our family.”

“You’re an embarrassment.”

“Why don’t you act like a man?”

“I can’t be with someone who won’t have a stable career.”

“You should be a doctor like your uncle.”

“Follow in your father’s footsteps.”

“You need to take over the family business.”

“Just write your sissy stories as a hobby or something.” 

“Is that really what you want to be in the future?”

“Writing can’t change the world.”

“It’s all his grandfather and mother's fault.”

“I won’t allow it.”

“I think it’s best if you reconsider what you want to be in the future.”

“It was alright to tinker a bit when you were a kid but now you have to grow up.”

“You can’t keep escaping into your own world through your writing.”

“You won’t amount to anything. You failure.”

Stop...just stop...LEAVE ME ALONE! Please just...don’t take away my love for writing…Please...

I slowly opened my eyes to a glossy, blurry white. I sat up and rubbed my eyes that were now watery with tears.

“Damn. I really shouldn’t have done this.” I groaned, wrapping my arms around my face. I really shouldn’t have done this…

I loved reading and writing ever since I was a kid. It was fun and I enjoyed immersing myself into these worlds created by these authors who I thought were just absolutely amazing at what they do. They were my role models and I would look up to them. It felt like magic. They would conjure up these fantastical stories and I would indulge myself in their masterpieces. They were like magicians who were also storytellers. My grandfather was one of these magical storytellers and I admired him and his works very much. He could make up a story just about anything. If I tell him just a single word, like for example something with carrots in it, which I absolutely detest, he would tell a remarkable story about how a carrot, a single piece of orange cone with a green top saved a pirate’s life. It made me really respect carrots. Though I still didn’t like eating them, I ate them out of the sheer joy and fascination. If a carrot saved a pirate's life then it might save mine too someday. I know it’s a reverse psychological trick mom told him to do so I would eat my veggies but I gotta say it sure did work.

Mom took after grandfather and wrote children's books. She would always read me bedtime stories which I absolutely loved. I would sleep like a bear in hibernation and dream about adventures I would go on and solve mysteries with a brilliant detective. It meant so much to me. It was as if I was living in a fantasy. A beautiful dream that somehow came into the real world. I wanted to keep living that dream for all eternity but the sad truth is. Nothing lasts forever. Every dream must come to an end eventually. 

My grandfather soon left me. Then my mom followed after him. All that was left was my father, my step mother and their children. Even my sister left because she couldn’t take it anymore.

“I’d be better off dead than living in this hell hole.” Was the last thing she said to my father before she left for New York. She now lives in a studio apartment with her boyfriend and makes a living by selling her art and teaching in a local art studio. I wanted to leave too but...I can’t escape from the demons' claws. Not even the demons that lurk inside me…

My father’s a terrible person and so is my step mom. I just need to finish high school and then I’ll be free from them. I might never have to see them after I graduate but the emotional damage is already done. 

I looked at the paper once more.

“Why not write about your feelings? Keep a diary of some sort.” A voice asked. I heard the same question before. It was asked a long time ago by one of my favorite English teachers in elementary school. I remember giving her idea a try once and as much as I love her, I didn’t like writing about my feelings at all. Why? Cause it just made me feel even more bitter than I already am. The expectations that I’m forced to face in this family are nothing but shackles that lock me in a cage. In their grasp unable to fly away…

“Unable to fly away huh?” I uttered. “Alrighty then! Let’s just try to vomit on the paper whatever comes to mind. Anything at all and if I can’t handle the smell of it, I’ll just throw it in with all the other failures.” I exclaimed. 

I looked at the line that was meant for the title and wrote, “The Returning”.

“Now that’s a start.” I tapped the pen on my desktop. After a minute or two, I start to write a word down. Then another one, and another one, and yet another until I was making sentences. Sentences after sentences until I indented to make paragraphs. I grabbed another lined sheet of paper and continued on even as the light started to fade and the sun started to set. The boy doesn’t need a sword to win his battles. All he needs is a pen and sheet of paper to end the wars that rage in his heart and mind. This was the only way he could keep the memory of his loved ones alive and light the torch that was passed on down to him. As long as I can do what I love that’s all that matters. Even if nothing else does and no one cares, I’ll do it all over again and write to my heart's content. 

Writing might not be able to change the world but it can change mines. It can make it a little better, even if it’s only a little. It can ease my pain and bring back the light which I lost and hope to regain. Through the use of my pen and imagination I can bring back hope and let it soar through the skies. Free from all the shackles that bind its freedom.