nonfiction.

Someone once said that I should try to write nonfiction. My lazy brain panicked instantly. What the hell would I want to write? Which one of my experiences would I write about? And why must I write about myself??

Up until now, I'd only written fictional work. Mostly having connection to mental health issues I've struggled with and philosophical questions I myself couldn't find answers to. Others were about unique identity traits and characters of certain people I've crossed paths with, things I've experienced and some things my brain came up with.

I thought, why not just write something? Like, just paint a picture, one moment of your life, that made you think, something that's not about you, something you might not ever forget.

I thought about it for a few moments (although the few moments were really more like days of procrastination, multiple snack sessions and cool showers—and I must add, days of introspection), and came up with one thing.

Nothing.

I wondered if something was wrong with me (Like— Isn't it just a write up, brother?). The fact that I consumed nonfiction books like a mother hen hunting for her chick's daily grain, I was frustrated by my inability to come up with a single sentence. Days had passed and I was still unable to write anything. Had I reached my writer's block? (Mine is usually as tall as the walls of Jericho) I thought to myself. I decided to do something about it.

To make it easier for me, I placed the pen and notebook on the sitting room’s center table. Conditioning my environment to always have these two items, I was constantly reminded to accept the challenge and write something anytime I passed by. I was going to write just one sentence. Even if it was just a simple sentence. Nothing about life was perfect nor pure grim, so instead of trying to make a perfect piece, I thought why not just write something, anything, even if it was rubbish. This skill wasn't any different.

The brown leather notebook wasn't one of my favourites so wasting a few pages didn't feel so excruciating.

Sighing, I picked up the pen and scribbled a few “What's my main topic?” ideas. Music, philosophy —of what?, psychology, people, food, uh books?

Next thing I know, I find a pair of earphones in my ears, blasting loud rock music. Music was my thing, I know, but this kind of music was distracting me. I pulled them away from my ears and went back to thinking of which cuisine I was more accustomed to. Is it French, Chinese…

And then it happened again.

Music. This time it's a soft classical tone playing in the same earphones I had yanked away from my ears a while earlier. When did I put them back there??

Hmm.

I pulled them away again and decided to put my phone on focus mode… wait… my phone? My phone's not with me. I had placed it in the other room to avoid distracting myself with Shorts and Reels.

Wait… what??

I sat frozen in place, wondering if I had started losing my sanity, then slowly turned around to get a proper view of my living room, gathering the details. No other soul was there. Nothing seemed out of place. The old worn out books on the shelves were still standing, the couches were… okay and the TV… well the TV had a huge crack running across the screen. I hadn't seen that till now. Hmm.

And why was the crack so disturbingly flawless—a straight clean crack running through the width of the black screen?

I stood up to examine it, not noticing the huge blot of black ink that had formed on the page I'd been writing on.

As I got closer to the screen on the wall, I noticed that the huge crack seemed to disappear. I gasped in disbelief. The doorbell then rang as I questioned my sanity for the fourth time. I walked through the wooden tiles and unlocked the entrance door. No one was at the door.

Strange.

My life must be really twisted. How could I even be experiencing a string of unusual events in a row? My heart rate increased by a significant amount and I didn't know what to do to calm myself. What form of exercise could I do to calm down… or… was I hallucinating?? Hm, maybe.

I sat back on the couch and noticed a huge ink blot on the paper. I tried convincing myself that it was just a hallucination but as I touched the stained spot, it felt wet like real ink.

Then what the hell was going on??

I heard a knock on the door a second time then froze. Checking it again, the same thing happened. Nobody was there. This time, the whole sheet of paper was covered in ink and was dripping on the carpet.

Should I cry, should I scream or laugh? Should I do all three at once? Is that even possible?

Panicking, I left my soul in the room and sent my body systems far away from the unknown danger, straight to my bedroom. As I jammed the door, there seemed to be elements of stillness and tranquility within me. I felt normal. As I retreated to sitting at the bottom of my good old bookshelf, the one I'd nicknamed Lego, my soul returned to my body. The books there were much older and had worn out covers.

They seemed to be calling my name. Pick me! Pick me Dory! Reading one wouldn't hurt. Who knows? It might aid my writing process.

It seemed to work. Well, at first. I thought that I should write about thinking patterns and why people think the way they do but— you wouldn't believe what happened next! (What happened next?! You ask.)

Well, I went to sleep.

P.S: part 2 undergoing construction, cement mixing still underway.