Obituary of a Dead Writer

“But a prayer that he sends from his heart's deep core,
    But a plea, that upward to Heaven he flings —
    I know why the caged bird sings!”

Sympathy

Paul Laurence Dunbar (1872-1906)

The writer in me is dead… Yes, you’ve read correctly, the writer in me is dead. He passed away a while back and while the exact time of death is uncertain, the cause of death seems to be quiet evident.

Lack of mental stimulation and inspiration rendered the writers soul pale. Fourteen months prior to this date, the writer was diagnosed with paradigm shift. It was deemed that the writer would move back to his former roots and accrue a stable job that would help him cope with the masses that inculcate themselves into an environment such as one the writer in me endured until he met his fatal end.

Documented evidence suggests that the writer prepared himself for what was to come by saying “I will always continue to write. Just because I take up a job that does not involve writing, doesn’t mean I will have to stop. It will be something that I can always pursue on the side.” Little did the writer know that his forthcoming lifestyle would limit his opportunity to put pen to paper.

The environment the writer was in seems to be a recurring factor for the cause of death. He was pushed to act in ways, he would not have otherwise. He eventually was weaned to succumb to an ideology that he seldom believed. And while in any other situation, the writer would have celebrated such diversity, this occasion was different. Celebrating such an ideology would mean just one thing, he would have to let go of whatever he had ever come to believe and stand for at some point in his life.  His past was questioned by ‘management’ and the final blow came when he came to question it himself. And while the writer and myself would like to believe that things would have been different, if not better had he have continued to bloom in what he defines as home, one would have to draw parallel to Schrödinger's Cat and conclude that the outcome will forever be unknown.

This is not a prayer or a song flung up to heaven to be salvaged as there is very little to rescue but a plea to the writers still alive. Thus ends the obituary of a dead writer’s dead soul.