The words wanted to come out. They were there, in his head, waiting to be written down, but for the banging. The screaming at the door. The calling him names. The mocking his virility. He had hoped the place he’d rented deep in dark of the Everglades bear Citrusville would find him the peace he needed. The work he would be known for was right there. ‘The Song Cry of the Living Dead Man’ would change the world. Would open otherwise closed minds; bring a generation together, and yet it was the world that was causing Brian’s writer’s block. His self-doubt, and loathing were so strong they would manifest themselves as poltergeists. His torment so strong that he felt this decaying mental hospital would be the only place fit for him to write his seminal work, and ultimately end his life. Walking out of his life in California; his wife, his child. A job on a successful television show. No one understood the crippling uncertainty he was weighed under each day. The mornings always started with a sense of hope, but before he splashed water on his face the mirror would begin to move and his reflection would spit out recriminations regarding his place in the world. He lived in a constant state of anticipation: Was he good enough? Was he smart enough? Did he love his mother, his wife, his child, well enough? And finally the most debilitating one, Did what he write matter? The life of a creative being was all he knew; longed for, yet if the world came to revile him what vocation could he ever find solace in making a living through. The words of his opus would come slowly between the wails and demands of his inner demons. The menacing, bleakness of the swamp’s drooping trees were a metaphor of his suspicions his talent was an empty vessel blocking the light of happiness. Maybe tonight he would finish a page. Maybe tonight he could sleep.
For Steve G. You are missed.