Mira [On-Going]

CHAPTER TWO: PART ONE

I decided to block out the voices by distracting myself in the form of writing.

NOW THEN, WHAT DID I WRITE during that awfully crippling trip?

Let's see: rain was falling, the wagon's wooden floor was creaking, the voices in my head weren't stopping, my hands were shaking, and my skull felt like it was being split open--obviously a rather adverse time to start writing, but I had to do something nonetheless.

I opened up the notebook and turned to the first blank page that I could flip it to. My hands were shaking as I held the pen and I was reluctant to start writing, thinking that I was only going to write nothing but nonsense. I first thought about writing a formal verse poem, a sonnet; a one-stanza poem composed of fourteen lines written in iambic pentameter or ten syllables per line. I tried thinking about a specific subject of the poem and not just write about the random things that were in my head. I thought of writing about romantic love, which is the usual subject of sonnets, but nothing came to mind when I thought about romance. So I went on thinking about a better topic to write about and, for some reason, the voices started to quiet down gradually. Maybe I was so focused on finding an ideal subject for the poem that it blocked out the voices.

"What should I write about?" I asked myself, "Should I commit on writing a sonnet? Maybe I shouldn't. Maybe I should. What is there to write about? Romance? Other than that what else? Let me see. Romance: let's cross that one out. Home? I don't feel like I'm in the mood to write a poem about home. How about death? I guess I should not for that'll only supplement the voices. What about the rhyme scheme--in what way should I write it down? Should I really write a sonnet? Maybe I shouldn't, but maybe I should. Think, think, think."

I sat there staring at the wagon's floor with the butt-end of the pen held between the upper and lower rows of my teeth as I tried to think about a topic. I could still hear the voices but barely and I felt relieved that they were finally shutting up. I remember letting out a subtle sigh of relief on that very exact moment. My head no longer felt like bursting open and my hands were free of shaking. At last, I had calmed down; but the rain, however, unlike the voices and myself, did not. It kept on pouring down and the entire interior of the wagon drowned in the sound of it hitting the leather tarp. It sounded like I was surrounded by computer programmers that were constantly typing on their keyboards--Thock! Thock! Thock! Clack! Clack! Clack! Click! Click! Click! I started appreciating the sound of the rain now that I had calmed down. It helped me think.

"Now then, what should I write?"

I spent a little bit more time thinking of a topic. I soon decided that I was not in the right condition to start writing a poem. I scrapped the idea of writing a sonnet and thought about something more simple and straightforward rather than an allegorical poem. I turned to Roman for help and asked him for suggestions. I moved towards the front of the wagon to talk to him.

"Hey, Roman," I said.

"Yeah, kid?" Roman said, turning his head to look at me.

"This is embarrassing, but can I ask you something, sir? Well, I already am asking but erm--I know you get my point."

"Sure, kid, it's alright. What do you want to ask me?"

"What should I write about?" I asked.

"Say again, kid. What should you?"

"Write about, sir. I thought about writing something for the time being. The stop's still far and my head's already beating the hell out of me."

"We're only a few minutes in and you're already bored aren't you?"

"Well, you could say that. But really I just want to do something to pass the time."

I lied and did not tell him the real purpose why I wanted to write.