Never Dreamt

Again, here we have another small composition I wrote for college. Hope you all enjoy it.

Maybe I am not supposed to be a scribe. Although it has been my life long dream to be one, I have never possessed the required skill for it. I long to write, I crave epic stories, desire romance and drama, and cherish poems and sonnets; yet they all elude my mental grasp. Ever since I can recall, I have reached for the quill and ink, and failed.

My mind went blank, my palms and fingertips began sweating, and I ran out of breath. Every single time I reached for the ink and sat in front of a blank parchment, I experienced the same symptoms. Every time, but one. Not long ago I dreamt of a poem, a gorgeous epic poem which included all I ever wanted to write about. It was a gift from God, or so I thought; yet now I know it actually was a curse from the devils. If only I had never dreamt that dream.

Every time I think about time I despair, yet ever since my poem was made public by my benefactor, time is all I hear. After my ode was published, an editor was appointed to me. Supposedly to help; in truth, to torment. Every week he calls for me, and everyday he reminds me that my time is running short, that my patronage is at an end. If only I had never dreamt that dream.

My editor called me asking about my next writing again this morning. Threatened me with poverty and hunger and tried to force me to spew verses I had not written nor conceived. My editor called me to torment my soul. Never more would that happen, for I have no more soul. I have forgotten it, lost it in the days of yore; it has been eroded by the tortuous days I have lived since my poem was published. I too shall pass, as my dreamt poem already has. Farewell all. A sad unmemorable farewell for a sad unmemorable scribe.

If only I had never dreamt that dream.