I consider something is still left in me

If anything had gone smoothly as per plan, I would have been in position to publish my second book by next month. The writing stopped abruptly last September when many official things came up eating away my time. As soon as I settled down after reaching home, I could sit behind the desktop and typed up to 500 words every day. It had reached 75% of the story when I failed to put life support to the characters.

Unlike my first book which I had shared some of the first few chapters on the blog-site (www.writersofbhutan.com), the second book is secretive even to my closest of friends. Now, I feel pain. The characters don't visit me in my sleep. Gazing away from the window has failed to inspire me. I lack conviction even to face the characters of the story. Yesterday, with a heavy heart, I opened the draft and read some chapters I wrote. The comedian failed to put smile on my face. The girl did not like the poem the boy had written to her. The boy no longer possessed the idea to romanticize. The idea of a light-hearted romantic story was seen as a tragedy that did not get justice in the end. I excused from the family and went for a long walk taking Kuenselphodrang road.

The thin crescent moon had just come out of the hill. I walked further up the road. The streetlights started to radiate the valley of Thimphu below me. I sat on the culvert and took long breaths. The chilled air brushed my cheek. Behind me, the darkness had already enveloped the pines. I searched out for the moon. "I am a failed writer," I murmured. The thin dapple of cloud had shrouded my moon. "Do you see me?" I shouted. "You should be able to see me. You see every part of the world. Ah! You don't see me. The cloud had shrouded you." The wind blew hard. The branches of pines swished. "I did not ask you," I shouted. My body had become cold. I wanted to head back home, then and there.

Whether I was the first to stand up from the culvert or the moon had cleared the cloud, I was not able to say.  I thought we have acted at the same time because I took the seat back when behind me the pines no longer hid in darkness. The thin crescent moon had gained its strength to shine the world beneath. I could see the silhouette of mountain peaks taking their shapes just as any artistic hands of a painter are capable of. I was left gazing at the peaks for some time and then goose bumps covered my skin. "She had to read this," I thought. "He had to write this poem to her. This time she will enjoy his poem."

This morning, I woke up before the crack of dawn. I opened up my draft and read through once again. The same story, the same characters, the same poem, the same comedian -  everything had the story to tell. I smiled, I cried, I felt romantic.

Why were they different the other night? Was the comedian too drunk to make me laugh? Was the protagonist suffering from a rheumatic heart disease that he did not love his girl? I closed the draft and knew what I just have to do.