#weirdly unrelated to all the star wars stuff in my feed so sorry

[2dayihaveaheadache]

Devine Grapes (autumn's gift the gods have bestowed upon me)

(TW: written full of anger and bitterness, fighting my way through writer's block, trying to capture the shame and doubt.

“Your muse's kiss will fade. Desert you. One day, it will. Just as the sun bleeds over the horizon one more time you’ll awaken to your bed gone cold. A void, a chilly emptiness next to you where the spark, the force driving you used to be – your lover, you may say. The guiding hand, the nourishing warmth, the insatiable craving for another sentence, another page, another thought etched onto paper – all of that will be gone. Left you hanging with no trace and no footprint to follow.".

That's something one of my professors in Creative Writing once told me and at first, you listen to it, sitting down there in the lecture hall and thinking if this will ever happen to you, it'll be in decades, cause there you are, filled to the brim with bright ideas. Then it happens to you, hits you like a whirlwind, and leaves you with nothing but shame. Because as a writer what are you without words? I wasn't prepared for it.)

It's a Monday, just an ordinary Monday in the heart of October when he loses the right to call himself a writer. The morning sun has melted away the snow, leaving only dampness behind that, clings to the leaves scattered on the sidewalk outside his office window. It's a pitiful sight as he gazes down from the second floor, at those lifeless leaves that should have succumbed to death long ago—or better yet, should have remained dead. Only the icy grip of winter had frozen them in time, bestowing upon them a bit more of life, a stupid deception. Now that winter has departed, all that's left is their sorry brown remnants.

But even that is not their end. They are damp, they cling, they attach themselves to the soles of those passing by, carried along for a few more steps, perhaps feeling the sun's warmth or the cool spring breeze one last time. But then, they eventually become nothing, breaking down into individual fragments—cellulose, chlorophyll, and more. Who pauses to observe them when they're reduced to tatters? Who cares about the old leaves that cling to you, brushing them off as bothersome dirt? Which tree mourns their loss?

So, what value do these final hours hold, these last hours of life, when all of it is going to be wasted at the end?

He takes a strong sip from his Chablis, vintage 2013, and murmurs, "Writer," into the empty space before him. His office only answers with silence. The word tastes peculiar on his tongue, sour like fermented milk, and when he swallows, it leaves a bitter aftertaste, erasing the sourness altogether. The vine suddenly tastes horrible. "Writer," he tries again, as if repeating the word would somehow make it better. He stands there, silent in his contemplation, the word "writer" hanging heavy in the air, entangled with the melancholy of the season's change. It's as if the departing winter had taken a piece of him too, leaving behind a barrenness that mirrors the desolation of those lingering leaves.

What are his final hours worth? What is a writer without words? A fish without water. A ship without a sea. A tree without roots or even a man without fingers.