In the dark of the night, K would get up thirsty. The first thought to strike him was always the same. Today he would write. Today what he wrote would tell the world he was always a writer. Today he would prove that he was better than most.
The next day, there would a bad dream and he would rise sweating. Horror would stay stuck in the hollow of his throat. The same thought would haunt him. He would lug it with him all day and take it with him to bed. The thought slept in him again that day.
Gradually he grew to love the thought more than being a writer. The burden had now become like the shirt on his back.
He never wrote anything. At least nothing on paper. In his mind, he was the greatest writer alive.
It was a pity no one knew K. And K knew no one. Or may be a blessing. Because K could not write. Not on paper.
K never observed anything. K’s life happened only in his head. K even believed all lives happened in people’s heads. There was nothing in the outside worth believing.
But K wrote many stories. When he turned and tossed in his bed, he would get first sentences. Always first sentences. They were beautiful, again only in his head. When he woke up, they were gone, along with the night.
That’s how K became a writer without paper.