He stared at the pedal fan with an intent glare as if waiting to be hypnotised . But that simply was not possible, the signs of overabusiveness were clearly visible. It could barely make from one end to the other, than in comparison a snail would be much faster to it. The disheveled fan bore the testimony of the unkempt nature of it's owner. He still gazed at with his droppy bloodshot eyes with much furore. Yet nothing came out of this absured mediation.
'Ah! Where the hell are you hiding my muse?!', said a frustrated Ray. It's been a perpetual ritual of sorts for Ray to search for his Muse at odd places, seldom she shows up with meagre meal of thoughts and inspiration in her baskets. Though his Muse cannot be solely blamed for the lack of contents. It was his excessive drinking habit that cause the hole in the basket most of the time.
He used to do freelancing and was earning much, but not until recession hit and Ray was unfortunately amongst those shot by it. He lost his job and the burden of debt weighed day by day. He tried his hands at various jobs, but, everything was taking him downhill. Like they say ' When it rains, it pours'. Bad luck was his constant companion. Yes, he always thought he was bad luck. But, that was not the case, the major cause for his penury was his lack of self belief.
He always had it easy, when his father was alive. Even with modest income, his father would pamper him to spoils. Ray, always had a sheltered life. It was only after his father's demise, Ray came face to face with reality.
He now sat in his dilapidated house. Previously, he had a modest house of his father. But, as his scale of debts increased he had no way but sell it and move into this shoddy dungeon!
As a kid he was quite prolific at making up stories. But, as years went by he lost interest in his childhood ingenuity. And, now he was trying to clear the rust off it.
Today, was his last day of trying his hand at writing for one last time. He sat on the old office chair which screeched every time he sat on it. Ray, owned minimal amount of furniture's that came along and were as shoddy as the house. Giving an impression as if being haunted by spirits. He stared at the typewriter for a moment as if commanding it to type on it's own.
He placed a plain sheet ino the typewriter and tried to punch the already punctured typewriter. As he was struggling with his endeavour. He kept on glancing to a bottle kept in the opposite table with angst.
It didn't look like regular gin bottle. The label on the bottle read POISON. He had decided that if even today was going to be unproductive, he'd end his life! He was fed of his addiction to alcohol and also the incurring debts which welcomed profanities of money lenders towards him.
The thing that he dreaded happened. Yet again, he was unable write anything. In fit of hopelessness he grabbed the poison bottle and gulped half of it. In his last moment he typed something and lost consciousness.
Many years later in a creative writing class , a student chalked out on the blackboard a Thought of the Day quote. 'I WRITE, HENCE I'M A WRITER - Anonymous'
'Inspiring', she sighed with a gleam in eyes.