I saw him as soon as I stepped outside. In the poorly lit balcony there wasn't much to see of him but the sight of one dangling leg, the arms swung over the balcony railing and the fingers miming the holding of a cigarette signing the mourning of the demise of an old habit made it inmensely clear that it was him. Taking small steps as to not unnerve him, I stood next to him.
"I think I forgot how to write." He told me in usual deadpan voice which showed emotions for very few people. "That's stupid, one cannot forget how to write." I scoffed at him. "I think I did." He said with a smile. His fingers swung up, pointing to the dot of moving red light up in the air signalling a plane. It was clear he wanted me to look at it. I did.
"I stepped out here about an hour ago and I saw three flights go by." He paused. I knew him well, I let him take his time. "I looked at all of them and thought how each of the flights are filled with people who are living completely different lives from our own. As we speak, someone in flight A might be excited to meet their partner for the first time who they have been talking to for an year while in flight B, a person might be on his way to a funeral." I nodded. He continued, "I thought I should write something about that but." He took another pause and mimed throwing away the invisible cigarette to the ground and continued, "But I couldn't. I couldn't write anything and I don't know why. It felt wrong, it felt like I was picking up the dead remains of a person and trying to breath some life into him, trying to tell him to wake up, take a step, take the next train to his place, walk up to the room his mother is in and ask her how she's doing, tell his friends that he's right here and he's not dead. It felt wrong."
"It might just be a writer's block." I said, trying to gauge what he's thinking. He shook his head, ensuring me that it isn't. We stood in silence out there for a while as the night kept getting darker. As the time passed me by, I heard a voice whisper from beside me followed by soft sobs, "I don't want to forget how to write. I really don't. I don't have anything else, I don't have anyone else, help me." He clutched my hand and shook me. His empty sobs echoed around the empty balcony as it filled me with disgust. The sheer stench of weakness coming from him filled my mouth with the taste of bile as I shook him off. Turning my back to him I started walking towards the door. As I looked back he had fallen to his knees and kept getting smaller and smaller as the door came closer.
Stepping out, I dusted my shirt off of any remnants of him and his weak pathetic self. That was the day I saw him for the last time, the writer who forgot how to write.
