An empty liquor bottle, a couple of lighters, and then there was the pencil; all abandoned on the train track; a story.
Traces of a writer, you know the kind who writes to be inspired.
Such species, they search for larger meaning in worldly things; who take things personally, feel extreme joy and dejection as a direct effect of emotions around them.
They are frequently accompanied by ideas and thoughts, but also alcohol and cigarettes; almost because those are the only things that seem to tolerate their idealism; or then, the only things that will help mask the lack the of it in the world.
You’ll always see them carry a notebook and a pen; ready for when inspiration strikes, and words pour out like liquor from a decanter, filling not only the void in their mind, but also the chalice of stories, the kinds that people will read even a hundred years later and yet, relive that moment like it is now, present.
These are the traces I want to leave behind, some notebooks, a pencil, and a collection of stories, of life and love and meaning and more; the ones that will find a place in the life of someone, who just like me, is never satisfied with what is, and yearns for what can be; can be done.