The Promised land

Closing his eyes after the sip of wine, he reflects on what his life had been. Tumultous and torturous. His life, flashes in scenes. The emotional blackmail tobecome a doctor, the drunken rants of his father cursing his pudgy demeanour, secretly crying while his parents fought and he could never forget how his father went on and on about not doing anything in life. He held out for so long but when would it all stop. Dangerous thoughts of ways to finish of his father or perhaps escaping the madness by leaving his earthly abode to seek heavenly peace. 'Just block out whatever your father says', he was reminded often by his mother. The same woman, who in her sixty years shared the endless nagging and thrifty conduct of her husband. 'Concentrate on your studies and they shall lead you out of here', she said. So what could he do except continue to study and cram vast details of the human body or contraindications of medications. Stuff which he didnt care for. Even the suffering patient, would look earnestly into his eyes and find no solace, like a defeated gladiator waiting to meet his match. His eyes open to the blating of the television. He walks towards he window, looking out towards the horizon. Someday I shall be free of all this. If only they didnt happen in the first place. 'Daddy, daddy', his little girl runs to hug him. He smiles. It doesnt seem that bad after all.
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The Writer

Scrunched up papers fill the room, another bounces of the others and rolls to reach back to him instead. Words, having only half lives, soon find themselves struck and evicted along with countless others, struggling to hang on to his masterpiece. My sire is far too young blooded. Ruled by passion rather than experience. But who is to decide where a character has its origins from. Their attributes may arise from the personal pages of the authors life or from distressed neurons who wee themselves into shameful brilliance.

In the room, the bulbs glow in their forty watt glory, insects dance around it and when its time to kiss, they burn. The florid wallapaper holds on for dear life and the infirm floor creaks its aches and pains. An apple half eaten, bronzes away on the wooden table. The novel has converted him into a manic. His stomach filled with occasional sips of wine and his mind, tossing and turning in its rugose sheets. I pray for the day to come soon when the words THE END are written, for he shall then back return to normal.

*Inspired by Ellie Goulding's The Writer
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