31 juillet 2005

Untitled

He'd been trying to come up with an explanation for what he could only view as writer's block. With one little thing: he wasn't even a writer - he was barely a speaker.
He found he always had trouble expressing himself, making himself understood to the masses of people just admiring him. Thing is, they were admiring him. Ooh-ing and aah-ing at everything he did: no wonder the pressure was stifling everything creative.
He'd been warned well in advance that the turn-out would be big. And he'd tried to deliver. He'd tried everything under the sun. Plastic arts, for lack of a more adequate term, because his... doodling? certainly didn't qualify as drawing, more a sort of projectile painting with everything he could lay his hands on.
He'd tried poetry, in a language that he was the only one to understand, as he reckoned that was sure to have him labeled a genius. He'd tried singing, in a very personal syncopated skat fashion.
Nothing. So he'd decided to go for expressive silence. Just looking and reacting. Facial words, if you will. Especially since people he had never met were present. Well, they were here for him, and he had to give them their money's worth: some amazing mime artistry was bound to get him off the hook.
And at 8:00, everybody suddenly shut up. A siren song started, his eyes started drooping, and his mum gave him his favourite teddy. All set.