Rain lashed against the windowpanes, mirroring the storm brewing inside me. The amber glow of the desk lamp cast long, distorted shadows across the cluttered office, each file and book an unspoken witness to the turmoil within. Writers, I used to think, were my favorite people. Not for their self-indulgent scribbles or fabricated fantasies, but for their ability to craft worlds, to capture emotions in a single sentence, to offer solace even when their stories ended in tragedy.
But tonight, the words mocked me. My latest manuscript lay open, the protagonist staring back with hollow eyes, a reflection of my own emptiness. The deadline loomed, a hungry beast waiting to devour my creativity, and all I could manage were fractured phrases, empty pages echoing the hollowness in my chest.
DMT 