When You Go

I woke up at three in the afternoon. Twilight was just beginning to sink its teeth into the world; I couldn't tell what kind of weather the day had been. The wine bottles had emptied, one by one, and by the time we walked home, the clubs were closed, morning was waiting in the starting blocks. I dropped him off at the apartment by the bakery, and we saw a hundred loaves fresh out of the oven, it seemed impossibly quaint and smelled like comfort. When I reached my own apartment, the old lady across the street had her lights on; we live in different time zones. I dreamed another reality and didn't want to wake up, when I did.

He writes to say inspiration is failing him, that every page is a struggle. That he would much rather sit in bed with his girlfriend and drink coffee, listen to music. But that he will continue to write, despite the heartache inevitably rearing up around his main character, because he has people around him who believe in him. Because we need him to finish. I write him a long email of encouragement, of how worthwhile to fight when the battle seems poised for defeat, of gathering the last bits of strength and proving yourself, if only to yourself, and of the satisfaction that lies in accomplishment.

It was not until later, after I'd pushed send, that I realized I was really only talking to myself.