Night and day the ink flowed from the nib of his pen.
Frantically, mercilessly he scratched his heart, his thoughts, his dreams, his longings and his struggles into the curled pages.
They came out in rages and fits. They came out in sonnets and lyrics. They came out in poems and stories and haikus.
He wrote with despair.
At times the ink had nary the time to dry before the page was turned. At times it was barely legible through the watered out blotches from his tears.
Still others the page was nearly lacerated with the rage and heartache that tore from his own soul straight down his arm and through the fragile paper.
Volumes upon volumes lay about him. In stacks and piles and crumples. Shoved and stuffed in every conceivable nook or cranny.
There were candle wax drippings along the edge of his desk, near his bed, multiple burn marks where he’d fallen asleep as he wrote.
Awaking with a start and a curse as once again ink had spilled and dried in his beard.
His fingers bore the permanent stain of his craft but he paid them little to no mind.
The words, the lines, they sung to his soul and he picked up each thread, twirled and teased them apart to dash them madly down upon the leaf as swiftly as was possible.
At times unable to finish one before a second rushed upon him and the page was turned afresh.
Until one mad morning a knock at his door and upon opening it, there She stood.
She for whom he wrote for.
The One he knew and lived for. The One who kept his insanity at bay.
There she stood as beautiful as the day he’d first envisioned her in his stricken mind all those many years ago.
Oh, he’d never met her, no, but still his heart, the very fabric of his soul, Knew without a hint of doubt She Was The One.
And oh! how his stomach leapt into his throat!
Oh! how his tongue shuddered and stalled.
Oh! how she smiled and glanced away, a blush coloring her pretty cheeks.
From that day forward his pen strokes were lighter upon the paper, his desk sighing in relief from the rest it was given.
No longer heavy sighs and pounding of fists.
Instead, the pages flowed with looping curving letters and flourishes gilding the edges.
He still wrote poems and sonnets, stories and plays.
But these days they ended with a light-hearted spring in the step and a faint smile on the lips, a touch of the chin and a glow of the cheek.
For now he, the master author, wrote with Love.
tara caribou | ©️2018