There I sat, on the bench, lit by a single street light taking in the view of the rather luminosity looking city across the wide ocean that let off a radiance that was similar to fireflies in the pitch black night. The brightest lights of its highest points flickered, and once again, I saw the horrible looking steam from the factory in the shinning distance. I ignored that and turned to the light houses out on the front in the shimmering water, they were no strangers to me; I had met them in dreams past times. They had comforted me in nightmares as in times I felt the claws in my mind wrap around my brain in a descending spill of notorious blinding fumes of the dark. The dreams mostly consisted of things I never wanted to lose or things I lost and cannot handle losing. Twitching in a blind fury of both fear and unawareness I would awake from my dark lake of torment; through my closed eyes, I would show myself images that had sent chills down my spine. I cannot describe the places my mind showed me, I have an imagination that freaks even me out sometimes but it is not surprising considering my occupation is a writer - my skill with words crumples far beneath even the lowest of the blankets of connected dreams that looked similar to webs. My descriptions drown in the shallowest of the forbidden ones. The pictures I paint are barely visible through the flames my visions have given to me as a rather spiteful gift.
I was sitting here, pen in hand and a small black book in the other waiting to start writing my story. I had called it, the stars of midnight. I like to be connected to my characters in a story. I like basing things in the story on things that seem at least slightly likely to happen to one individual. The main character in the story can't get everything he wants and will if needed to make a good story, fail his goal. With a trembling hand I knew the type of story I wanted, the only thing I was worried about, did I really want to be the one to write it? As soon as my pen touches paper the pages trickle with black ink dripped with sorrow, a sad departure on the face of the paper. I begin to write, spewing my thoughts and ideas into the page. The fear of a million thoughts flashed across the tightly squeezed pen. I thought as I wrote that these words meant everything. A word can do a lot more then people can ever comprehend. People say actions speak louder than words, but without words of action, action would be nothing. I could if I tried, have swept tears into their eyes. I had thought of something for my book, silence. It's the most feared thing you could ever think of. Without people saying the words, they might as well be in a padded room with shackles on their arms.
I checked my wristwatch, not because I had to but to keep me distracted so I didn't lose myself in my writing which happened to me a lot. I was only twenty-six minutes into my story and at the beginning of my nightmares. I snapped and laughed at one of the pieces of madness I wrote on the page as if it was a great step towards salvation. I almost screamed, but decided not to, passively deciding that if I did it would disturb my train of thought. I lashed out on the paper with my pen with words, streaming as many descriptive and emotionally expressively types of words as I possibly could. The Pen became extremely heavy. And then it stopped. I looked down at my page. I needed a description for the book. Something simple to tell the reader what they are reading. A cryptic poet idea approached me. It was perfect.