The Artist

The cursor on the screen blinked at him tauntingly for the third night in a row. He couldn't think of a single verse, line, or word to write. Each time he tried his mind would go as blank as the page in front of him. Why was it so difficult for him to come up with things?

Usually, it would only take him a moment or two to think of something. A thing, seemingly insignificant, would spark an inspiration so passionate that it would burn through his mind for days on end. Until it was all there, on paper, in front of him. Only on occasion would the spark need to be fanned into a flame, and that had never taken him more than a few hours. But this time was different. He hadn't written a word for days. What was wrong with him?

At first, he thought that his study was too messy and distractive.

“The likes of Shakespeare would only scoff at this mess and leave,” he thought. “No genius could work in these circumstances”. And so he got to work.

But even after he cleaned all the nooks and crannies of the room, painstakingly scrubbing and wiping every surface, the cursor blinked away. He expanded his mission to his flat. Soon enough, every surface in his small living quarters was polished, and the calm violet of his lavender candles filled the air. And the page stayed empty. He couldn't write. His study felt more open than it was before… it felt somehow… more welcoming to his creative whims. Tantalisingly so. But another day passed, and he still could not write.

Next, he tried to cancel out the honking horns of cars, the screaming of people and the singing of birds outside his window. He spent a lot of money on noise-cancelling headphones and acoustic panels, sealing even the smallest cracks in his windows. But to no avail. The silence was unbearable. It enveloped him completely. He spent all that time and energy to create a silent space, only to hate it all and rip the panels down. He couldn't stand the hustle and bustle of the city but found writing in a world void of noise to be equally agonising.

“Maybe there's too much light. Dickens probably had his study lit by candles and dim gas lamps” he muttered to no one in particular.

So, he tried that. He bought thick curtains and blinders to cover the two large windows in the room and paid close attention to the one facing south. He covered every surface in his study with candles, dug up his mother’s old oil lamp from his storage room and set it next to him on the desk. The study transformed once again. It was now dim and moody, like the furthest corner of a library just before closing time. Still nothing. He just couldn't write.

“Is it too dark in here? Have I dimmed my creativity with the sun? Could it be...” and so on he rambled. He ripped his curtains open, and the light that shone in blinded him for a moment. The light sprung in as if to greet an old friend, fussing all over the place, touching every surface with tenderness. But even that felt like mockery to him. He chose to dim the sun out a little bit, but not fully. That did nothing, but it felt better than all light or no light. So, he had to look elsewhere for answers.

And so the weeks dragged on. He tried it all. Nothing worked. He moved all the furniture in his study multiple times, only for them to end up exactly where they were when he started, he tried at least ten types of herbal teas and meditating, protein shakes and working out, selling old trinkets and ordering new ones, you name it. Nothing. The cursor taunted him on the screen, blinking away until eternity. He felt its deep, cold stare on him even when he wasn’t seated in front of his computer. It was mocking him. Making fun of him. He closed the screen and turned his work chair away from the keyboard for a moment, but he could still feel the cursor blinking away. He swung back around and slammed his laptop shut. He had had enough.

It had to end. But how? How could it end? The world had torn his creativity to shreds, and no remedy had been able to lull it back into existence. He was getting desperate. He felt as if he was hanging on by a thread of a spider’s web. His mind was still seeking for a glimpse of light in the dark, trying to find sound in silence and learning to love the craft that seemed, now, to be a stranger… Then a thought occurred to him. Maybe that was the issue. Maybe he should embrace his situation, let his mind seek the depths of darkness. Look for the sound of silence, rather than seek some melody to cover the symphony of nothing, and to embrace the stranger that he never really knew. And so, he turned to his laptop, opened it back up, and started to write: “The cursor on the screen blinked at him tauntingly for the third night in a row…”