I just turned on my computer, my coffee's finally ready, cooled down enough for me to actually taste it rather than feel it scald and parch the surface of my tongue. It's been a fairly relaxing, average day around here. I can hear and I can feel myself think, "It's time to start writing for the day." The optimism I felt was unrivaled by any other writer I knew, and I was as inspired as any writer to be, ready to start embarking on this underappreciated, thankless hobby I considered a beautiful, artistic profession. 879Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡTXWoDBPvZj
I double-clicked on my word processor to pop it open on the screen, revealing the project I started the preceding day. I looked at the bottom right corner of the screen. "21,567 words." Well, fan-fucking-tastic. I'm ahead of schedule. 879Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡYQn9ksv3DZ
So far, this entire project has been going much more smoothly than I had ever hoped or dreamed for it to become. I wrote this as the brainchild of an ancient mythical tale, and this project was my attempt to create a more modern version of this text, or at least, in a different time period. My confidence in myself and the project was sky-high, and I knew that the only thing that could stop me was myself. I began writing with my words flowing onto the screen, and it was smoother than Country Crock. This project, with a little bit of editing and some minor changes in the way I write and my vocabulary choice, could be my best one yet.879Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡktLz4dcZjX
I'm a college student, and the short story I had written earlier was a smashing success with my friends. It was a manuscript that nobody could find fault with, and even the English majors in my gen-ed classes agreed with the rest of the mainstream crowd: I had limitless potential and a God-given talent on my hands, and I had to use it to the best of my ability. Whatever it took to fulfill my potential, that's what I would have to go through. It was going to be difficult to become the writer I dreamed of being since I was that nutty six-year-old writing stories for all of my elementary school teachers. I don't even know why I was in college, to be honest, since it was more or less my parents' decision rather than my own personal decision. I was a business major because of the influence of my dad, who moved to this country to make a name for himself: both as a scholar in one of America's flagship universities, and as a successful entrepreneur who owned multiple restaurant and retail chain locations all throughout the West Coast. Needless to say, I had astronomical shoes to fill. 879Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡWtDTaMBPJp
The problem was, I could never fulfill the expectations of my father even if it was my choice. I'm a writer. I'm not a scholar, and I sure as hell am not a businessman. It was time for me to make a name for myself in a much different way than my father expected. As much as my father preached the importance of taking risks, I wonder to this day why he never allows me to this risk: one that would be much more appealing and much more fruitful for me than making pointless investments in something which never interested me to begin with.879Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡNUHNKppWPz
I could feel a palpable tension in the air as I kept writing, and the words weren't flowing from my keyboard anymore. My vocabulary didn't feel as eloquent anymore, and I couldn't finish what I started. I checked the bottom screen again to see that I was halted at 22,000 words, before a mysterious figure opened the door in front of me. I didn't quite make out a recognizable face, as it was moving at breakneck speed, flying away from my sight by the time I noticed it. But I did know that something, whatever it was, was making its way to my desk, watching my every move. I was petrified with fear, and the tension only solidified as I was shrugging my shoulders in a cold sweat.879Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡMn77snloNE
I stretched out my fingers, trying to continue writing, but before I could enter one character, I was loudly interrupted by this unwelcome noise. It was a loud, screechy scream. "YOU DON'T KNOW HOW TO WRITE!" If I could have thought with clarity at that very moment, my thoughts would have come out like this, Oh shit. I already am believing this about myself, I had only hoped that nobody else would confirm it as the truth yet... I tried to strike the "C" key, and I was again interrupted. "IF YOU BECOME A WRITER, YOU'LL BE THE JOKE OF YOUR FAMILY!" This... monster... swung around to my left ear and whispered, "You don't want to let down your father... do you? I mean, he came here as a refugee to work for you and raise you to be rich, powerful and successful by your own work... You and I both know that this writing you love to do is only a waste of your time..." He then whispered in my right ear, "You know, writing is just a distraction from your life as a businessman..." Keep typing, then this thing will go away... I tried to think. "If you leave college to become a writer, you'll have wasted your parents' money and made them both heartsick... Now you don't want that..." I frantically searched for my Beats headphones, but his whisper then escalated to a scream that echoed in my bedroom. "DO YOU?!" The scream came out of nowhere, and it ruined everything I had been working on so far, breaking my computer and making all of my books and manuscripts vanish from my desk.879Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡvM75CWFKW9
I was in a state of shock, and a state of anger. "Come on, now. You know, all of your stresses about writer's block will be ALL OVER NOW... right?" I tried to scream, but my throat was so dry and cracked that no such scream could come from my throat.879Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡx8hnLIHrxg
So I mouthed, "Reveal... yourself..."879Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡSWVZfUUCSG
This creature proudly revealed itself to me, and after I saw what this thing looked like, I could only leave my dry mouth agape. 879Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡtm5jHjPwvN
He... or whatever you call it... was wearing the exact same clothes I was wearing at the time, as he walked out of the shadows of my dark closet, slowly. The only distinguishable difference between myself and this troubling, annoying spirit, was that its human form it revealed to me was wearing a name tag, which read, "Your Own Worst Enemy." And the last thing I could remember about it also happened to be the most troubling, palpitating my heart and leaving myself confused. Before my alarm clock buzzed frantically in an attempt to wake me up, the thing I could remember most about it was his face...
It was my face. 879Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡOrTf9CCFO9
