Why I Can’t Write
I’ve been stuck in a pit of melancholy as of late. I’m bombarded by hopes but hopes are dashed. Sometimes I can’t write because I find myself depressed. It feels like my world might end.
You see, the horde is approaching. It’s a flood of green, colored by iron and bone. A million orcs march toward us, axes in their hands, the skulls of their victims hanging from their belts. Our only hope is the Eye of Igram, a magical orb that can send the devils back to the world from whence they came. But I have little faith that the farm boy we sent to retrieve it will return. After all, he must pass through the Swamps of Despair. And he must outwit the evil Sphinx of Delera, whose cunning knows no limits. Why would those stupid old wizards choose such a champion? The destruction of our world, of our lives, is inevitable.
I lay in bed, with thoughts swirling in my head. They are debilitating. I freeze in place, as if trying not to scare away a deer that wandered too close. If I reach out to grab them, they will be gone; if I don’t reach for them, they will be gone.
The hot fizz of lasers fills the air. Dominion forces leap out of their drop ships by the hundreds; the ships fill the skies like fireflies. My squad is holed up in a cave, waiting for our order to infiltrate the enemy’s field HQ and upload the virus that will disable their war machine. By that I am referring to their AI supercomputer that controls their strategy—a literal war machine. It is a suicide mission. It is the death throes of the resistance, a final act of misplaced optimism. I prefer blasters to optimism, but we have too few of the former and too much of the latter.
I stare are my screen ready to record my memories, but other voices interrupt. They want their stories told, too. They are a bit too aggressive.
The dragon stares down at me, its great golden eye reflecting my terror. Saliva drips from its massive teeth like drops of melt from glaciers, slow and cold. At any moment it will renew its attack on my soul. I cannot bear any more jokes. The giant dad cradles its red-scaled son under its wing, the smaller beast looking away in embarrassment. A dad cannot help its poor humor. That is the nature of the universe.
Sometimes I cannot write because I am depressed. When you swim in the hopelessness of other worlds, how can you expect to not be infected? There are simply too many worlds to save.
I’m going to pass the torch to Kavita Chavda, if she is reading this.