A word begets a sentence. A sentence begets a thought. A thought leads to a paragraph. Thus a story is born. I labor with the word, I wrestle with the sentence and never since the beginning of days has there been a strife more ponderous than creative thought. But with the resultant story comes an assurance. I will rise.
I met her three weeks ago. The way she swung her hips was art in motion. Her eyes were a brown deeper than brown. And brown has never held an allure so great as it did in the moist unfathomable depths of her eyes. My breath stuck and words went right out of my head leaving a humongous cavern of silently resounding attraction. Alas she wouldn’t have me. “You are not quite what I want. I am not ready to be in a relationship besides. Don’t trouble yourself thinking about me.” And my heart broke into a thousand pieces each smaller than the last. But with her rejection came an assurance. I will rise.
The days are hard. The nights are harder. The days though lonely cannot compete with the loneliness the nights bring. I lie in bed starring at the ceiling, willing the crushing need for something or someone to subside. My phone lies silent, no one is calling. My numerous texts though sent and delivered go unanswered. So I lie in my bed and battle the temptation to indulge in masturbation. I lose. Indulge then instantly castigate myself. A man should not have sex with himself. And in my state of helpless loneliness comes an assurance. I will rise.
A word begets a sentence. A sentence…a thought…then a paragraph. The story that emerges is one full of promise. The future is as yet undefined. I refuse to remain in chains. No amount of rejection will keep me down. The story born is definite. I will rise.