My creative writing coursework is almost complete; and I simply cannot read it a single time more otherwise my brain will implode and my new eighteen-year-old self would be barely into existence before it even started.
The silence of this computer room is deafening. The mumbles under people’s breath and the sudden, monstrous laughs that distract my little body that has its coursework staring back at it as if it asking me, Why can’t you read me? and my answer is just nothing but silence staring through my pupils.
So instead, I have written a new piece to destroy my rut that I got stuck in, the clichéd writers block if you will, and it is probably nonsensical.
I’m sorry for anything that I have done, she said to you. Why? That is for you to say. She apologised with water painting her cheeks, with a tinge of pink that made you think that you were on the brink of madness. You, whoever you are, do not accept her apology. Why? Again, that is for you to say.
Who has done something wrong to you? A girl, as she was a she apologised. Think of that girl, of someone who perhaps lied to you or resented you and is apologising for that. The resentment rising when she woke up in the morning. The lies she told about your fidelity or your friendship. I don’t know who this girl is, whether she is a friend or a girlfriend, but she may have somehow betrayed. But betrayed what? You? Your trust? Your commitment to one another?
The rambling begins as you said nothing to her after her apology. Nothing was to be said. The whites of your eyes turn bloodshot and deadly. You look annoyed and aggravated as if nothing she says will change it.
Change. Is that what you wanted? Change? Evidently, whatever she is saying sorry for, the lying or the infidelity or the idea that she accidentally used something of yours without asking, needs to change. But it is up to you whether you want to change it. I do not know why you would want her to keep lying to you, as that would defeat the object of lies: if you knew that she was lying, she would become a transparent monster in her own skin. If you wanted any adultery to continue, any love in your relationship was never true in the first place. But you may not mind them borrowing your things, but the question is, do they need to ask? Is the trust still there for her to take things that belong to you?
Like Othello, the handkerchief representing your love, and fidelity, may truly be lost. Desdemona may have lost her love for Othello, but maybe that was not of her own accord. The trust may have dissipated through the loss of the handkerchief. The handkerchief! (3,4,90-96). The begging for the love and fidelity to be returned.
But one knows that the tragedy of you (Othello) and your Desdemona will not reverse itself back into love. You will not be simply the hero; the tragic hero you are thus going to live as, and perish as.
Shakespeare was a crazy guy.