The Writer

They say that the pen is mightier than the sword. But people are so set in their ways that the only way to get their attention is with a sword. 

For they will not read, indifferent, or ignorant, or not. Nor will they write, for love, or vitality, or not. No. They will go on with their lives, living by tangibility and dining on technology. 

And they'll never understand such noble pursuits, as paperback writing, or sentiment poetry. 

And this is true in the case of the little boy with sad amber eyes who grew up to be a man with antagonized amber eyes. 

For the boy wrote when he was small. Of strange lands with fair maidens and wicked dwarves. He wrote of gallant knights and finer goblets of charity and hope. And he believed with every fiber of his being that this little fantastical niche was his foothold in the omnipotence of life. 

They all scoffed. And said that it was too fantastic. That it was morally wrong for such a young boy to dream up knights and dragons. No, a boy his age must play baseball and think in numbers. For that is what little boys must do. 

And the boy grew up without crayons or free speech. Yet he wrote more and more because that is what he thought little boys should do. 

And soon the little boy grew into a boy. His stories started to carry weight. They were realistic and historical and were charming and fanciful. 

He showed one, one day, to a teacher who loved the very essence of this boy and the stories he had written. So she called home and praised the 'young man' on his wonder and talent as a modern day artist. 

But young boys should not be writing charming stories they said. And the boy was reprimanded yet again for straying outside the grey square humanity had become accustomed to.

So he was burdened and scarred, until he joined a soccer team and the teacher never again mentioned his artistic talent. 

Soon the boy did grow into a young man. He was well rounded and enjoyed and wrote love poems in essence of a girl who didn't love him. 

Oh and how they laughed at the boy with heart and soul. 'Gay' they said, 'Pansy' they called. How young men should not be writing poetry. They should be preparing for careers. They should be business men and athletes and devoted husbands. They should not be reading dictionaries or dreaming. 

Children should not dream. They should not delight in the unknown. They should prepare for futures full of dynamics and money. They should evolve technically and mathematically. They should be ordinary and beautiful in the sense that they are the All American. They should not dare to be foreign in any sense of the word. They should not want to be eccentric or beautiful in the sense that they enjoy life by doing whatever it is that makes them happy. They should be soldiers with guns. Not soldiers with pens. Because children should not express themselves. Because adults should not express themselves unless it is in broad concepts. 

So the young man became a man. And he tried so very hard to write. For this was his chance to show everyone that he was right and that this was beautiful.

But oh the biblical wayward son laid down his hand at the rocks he was scraped with. And this new man begged and cried to a holy veil, praying to become something, anything. 

And that is how he found the idea to create the best thing he had ever written. To really show them all how profound writing could be. How profound and erudite he could be. 

So he showed them all. And wrote every day for a week until his letter was finally done. It was a masterpiece. Something that would shock the nation. Something that would make the world feel once more. 

And he placed his masterpiece on the table, lying in wait of his roommate to find it. And the man took his perch upon the chair, readied his tie, and took a leap of faith for his first and last masterpiece.