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we spoke no words, and shared no glances
I didn't care where the two of us would walk together, here or there
I asked you when was the last time you came here, with all your senses so calm and serene
all I cared was that you experienced it with me, today and tomorrow
you were happy to get the lost in the crashing waves of my words
we walked across the beach hand in hand
you were afraid of getting lost here, just tracing the path of the water
and forever after, if you really wanted it to be like that, you with me
breathing in the salty air, to the white noise of the eternal sea
you told me you didn't know, and it didn't matter anymore, not when I was here
the sun turning the sky into a drifting rainbow, colors washing over the clouds, one by one
see where I would take you, what I wanted you to know
we didn't need to, for I knew you were always there
the water beneath our feet, shaping the ever shifting sands on our journey
you really trusted me to take you someplace beautiful
until to you they had become as soothing and refreshing
where our hands held, the comfortable stillness of you and me
but happy to get lost in the sea of my words, steady and safe
as I did walking along these waves with you
I told you the beautiful place was right here all along
Folly sighed as she examined the fragments of her imagination, messily scrawled all over her notebook. The longer she stared, the more her brain felt lodged somewhere between frustration and exhaustion. It seemed pointless, as if trying to will the words into forming a solid, cohesive idea, but it just felt like her brain was trying to grasp smoke. Wispy ideas that she tried to form into something, but spilling out between the lines of the page.
In short, a bit of a mess.
It was at this moment, when flowery criticisms came to her more easily than finding a story to craft from these isolated sentences, spilled all over the lines, as if squinting her mind’s eye to fruitlessly find something faint and hidden in those jumbled thoughts, that Folly decided that perhaps a break was in order. This just was not going to get done at this rate. Admitting defeat, she quietly closed the notebook and set the pencil down.
Once the words left her eyes, only then did she realize that she'd spent over an hour at this. She’d just wanted to get some early morning writing done, but it was already almost noon. Birds were chirping, the sun was shining, and the street had become louder and more lively. Too focused on her writing to notice the world changing around her, she supposed. And all that fruitless thinking had gotten her was a headache, and a stomach running on empty.
A perfect excuse to go grab a bite to eat, and visit the library. There were some books she wanted to look at again. Perhaps she could get some insight, some inspiration, as to how to tell her story. And clear her head of some of that stagnant, still air.
For a moment, she contemplated whether to take the notebook with her. Tapping the textured cover with restless fingers, she decided against it. There was no need to carry her latest doubts and struggles with her. She wanted to have a fresh perspective on her own work, and taking it with her would just make her feel chained to it. A getaway was the best remedy right now.
The aftertaste of chocolate pastry on her lips was a welcome companion from the cafe to the library. The sweetness lingered in her memory as she walked up the library steps and greeted the staff on her way in. She had memorized all their names, and inquired about their family and pets, and attentively shared in their stories. It only made sense that the people working here could tell lovely stories, being surrounded by timeless tomes, tales, travels, and tribulations, enriching every page on every shelf.
She felt aimless and indecisive as she walked up and down the aisles, letting her eyes wander, as if trying to serendipitously stumble upon a perfect find. Honestly, how could one choose? So many stories everywhere, so many memorable books.
It was alluring to imagine her name upon a spine, displayed anywhere in a place like this... but such an image always seemed so lofty, so wildly ambitious, and out of reach. To share such a space alongside such classics, and such inventive contemporaries... really, it was a bit silly.
It seemed like such a logical conclusion that all of these celebrated authors that she admired, with their names prominently featured upon their covers, possessed some kind of ineffable quality. Some indescribable talent, that imbued their words with a kind of magic, that electrified the brain and fired up the heart with every page turn.
And yet when she looked upon her own writing, it felt flat. A lifeless gasp for something, effort evaporating into clumsy sentences, feeling stilted and haphazard. She knew that if she raised this concern to her friends, they would surely reject that and encourage her, prompting her to keep moving forward.
She placed her finger against the spine of a row of books, and let it travel along the entire shelf, feeling the bumps and variations in heights, thickness, textures, the very subtle noise her fingernail made as it moved from book to book. With a smooth motion, her digit flew over fantasy, science, romance, mystery, as if trying to tap into some secret power, lingering and bound up on those pages, to help her find the way forwards.
What was it about her writing that was bothering her? Was it that it was unoriginal? That any story she could imagine telling, someone had already told it, and probably done it better than she could? That no combination of words she could conjure would stand out, if it were cast upon the sea of words her mind was sailing past? Would it just get lost and adrift in reams upon reams of never-ending text, a hopeless castaway that would be so easy to ignore and walk past without a second glance? Nothing but a drop in the oceans-
"Hey."
Folly snapped out of her swirling daydream, spotting one of the library assistants next to her.
"You alright? You seem to be looking for something." The young man was neatly organizing some shelves, placing some recently returned books back to their places.
"Oh, no, I'm not lost... well, maybe a bit lost. Not lost in this library, but just... lost in my own head, I suppose." She defaulted to her polite smile. She'd been told it was a lovely smile. She wondered if it really was, seen from eyes that weren't her own.
"You must be a writer, then." He quipped, and when all Folly did was look at him quizzically, he explained. "We get lots of people in here, but it's the writers who wander the halls and let their minds float. They have a certain look in their eyes, like they're not just looking at books, but all the books at the same time, breathing it all in at once."
"Was it really so obvious?" Folly asked, feeling a little bit embarrassed.
"...I should probably come clean and say that it was only a guess. I didn't actually know, but I just had a feeling." He flashed a quick smile before going on with his work. "I'm Fabian, by the way. I'm a recent transfer."
"I'm Folly... local writer, I guess. Nice to meet you. I hope you like it here."
"Oh, I do. It's a lovely place. I find that the streets have a certain charm about them, but I can never really put it into words."
She thought for a moment. "Are you a writer? Or, an artist? Or just... the creative type?"
"I tried to be a painter. Studied for a few years." As the conversation continued, he kept walking along to the following shelves, Folly following closely. "But it was frustrating. I felt like I couldn't really say what I wanted, how I wanted. Which is how I ended up dabbling into music instead, and turns out, I'm having more fun with that now. So that's what I do when I have nights off. Words and portraits I can't really do, but melodies, that's my jam."
"I'm sorry you had to deal with all that frustration..." Folly was quite familiar with many of those feelings, that itch to make something, and not finding the way to make it spill out. "I hope it didn't make you loathe paintings, after all that struggle..."
"Oh no, not at all. I still love looking at paintings. Some people think it's a bit silly of me to look at many paintings of the same things, but I still like all of them."
A tiny spark emerged within Folly's head. "Come again?"
"Hmm?"
"You said people think you're silly for looking at lots of paintings of the same subject?"
"Oh yeah, totally. They asked me if I didn't get tired of staring at villages, meadows, and skies all the time, but honestly I can't get enough of those. Even with seeing all these artists from all these different centuries. Sure, they might be painting the same thing, but they're all doing it their own way. It's interesting to see how everyone does those things, in their own time, with their own individual brushes."
Folly ruminated on those words a bit. "I guess, if it's an appealing topic... it's not really a bad thing to have more of it, right?"
"Oh definitely not. I mean, these are landscapes people have been looking at for hundreds, thousands of years, but people still wanted to paint them. I guess it just helped them to say that that was the thing that looked beautiful to them."
"Do you think that in that way, it was a conversation with the works of their predecessors? Extending into the future that beauty they found?" Folly felt a bit silly posing the questions that way, but honestly the new perspective was so refreshing it didn't matter to her.
Fabian was quiet for a moment. "I guess? I never really thought about it that way. All I know is that I'd think it'd be boring if we just had the one painting of a cloud, or grassy hill. What's wrong with more of the same, if it's still good? I never get tired of eating sandwiches." He chuckled, and then pulled his phone out of his pocket. "Speaking of which, actually... it's my lunch break now. I'm gonna get a sandwich right now!" He put the phone back in his pocket and turned to Folly. "Nice meeting you, Folly. Good luck with your writing!" He waved at her and then made his way to the stairs.
"Nice meeting you too, Fabian. Hope it's a tasty sandwich!"
"Of course it'll be! I made it myself!"
The afternoon clouds lazily drifted along the skies, every so often stealing the sunlight, leaving the homes in cool shade beneath. A lovely day for reading, all in all. Folly loved it when the sun illuminated the paper. It exposed the texture, the translucency, and the sharpness of ink. Not great for preservation, as she'd been told, but she nonetheless appreciated the feel of a warm book on her lap and hands. Like the gentle company of a cozy cat, with less claws, and deeper conversation.
Maybe it had been the chat with Fabian. Maybe it has been the filling lunch. Maybe it was just stretching her legs and feeling the sunlight on her skin. But the doubts from earlier were no longer dragging her down. Now, she felt... confident? No, not quite... but decidedly assured, and relieved, that she wasn't wracked with indecisiveness and trying to grasp a scrambling swarm of thoughts.
She remembered the stories she had read as a child. The colorful books that piled up on her nightstand and little desk. Even if it was a collection so small that she could count all of them from a very young age, she didn't mind. She’d been happy to read and re-read and re-explore and re-imagine the handfuls of tales she had. And as soon as she was offered a new one as a birthday present, even if it was similar to the books she already had, her mind would hurriedly explore it from cover to cover, thrilled for even more.
That child-like wonder and elation that she looked back upon so fondly, it never truly disappeared. Every new book, even those assembled from themes and archetypes and arcs that she already knew so well, was still another opportunity for an adventure. In some sense, this was something she intellectually understood, yet emotionally had trouble accepting.
And with that mindset, she felt at ease. There was no need to re-invent stories, or conjure some artificially novel narrative. It was all right to take the pieces that had come before her, and arrange them in her own way.
She opened her notebook once again, and picked up her pencil. And she found her flow.
we walked across the beach hand in hand
we spoke no words, and shared no glances
we didn't need to, for I knew you were always there
breathing in the salty air, to the white noise of the eternal sea
the water beneath our feet, shaping the ever shifting sands on our journey
the sun turning the sky into a drifting rainbow, colors washing over the clouds, one by one
I asked you when was the last time you came here, with all your senses so calm and serene
you told me you didn't know, and it didn't matter anymore, not when I was here
you were afraid of getting lost here, just tracing the path of the water
but happy to get lost in the sea of my words, steady and safe
see where I would take you, what I wanted you to know
you really trusted me to take you someplace beautiful
I told you the beautiful place was right here all along
where our hands held, the comfortable stillness of you and me
I didn't care where the two of us would walk together, here or there
all I cared was that you experienced it with me, today and tomorrow
and forever after, if you really wanted it to be like that, you with me
you were happy to get the lost in the crashing waves of my words
until to you they had become as soothing and refreshing
as I did walking along these waves with you