Pens and papers. They're strewn all across the floor of the apartment. Jophiel, whose name means beauty, only wants things and therefore only depicts beautiful things. It seems that all he ever cared about was being beautiful and seeing only beauty in the world. Well, except he wants things with beauty to be destroyed. If you could call his life that of an aesthete or a narcissist.
As he tried to organize some papers into neat and orderly stacks, he thinks of his roommate Ced. This is one of those things he does, when he doesn't want to be alone with his thoughts. He sometimes struggled with his work, since he needed to come up with some ideas for his novels, but what challenged him most was his lack of inspiration to write. It seems that he has lost his track on creating unique storylines and plots to the point that he has taken a break for a year or two; and has just decided to go back on track to writing stories again when he was ready—as if writing was a form of muscle memory...and now, sitting in the middle of a mess he used to call his process, Jophiel wonders if anything has truly changed. The words don't come easily, but they come, slow and unsure, like limbs remembering movement after sleep. He picks up a pen and holds it for a while, just feeling its weight. Around him, the afternoon light filters through the blinds, catching on the dust in the air. Somewhere in the background, Ced is humming—off-key, faint, familiar. Jophiel doesn't look up. Instead, he writes one line on a blank page. It's not good, but it's a start.
Jophiel's previous works had been appreciated but not revolutionary. Yet, writing brought him unparalleled joy. It was his escape, his breath of fresh air, the thing that gave him clarity and purpose. Even if others believed him to be in a slump, he found solace in the creative process. He remembered the exhilaration of publishing his first book, the applause for his distinct plots, and the connection he forged with his readers. Someday—hopefully soon—he would rise to become a renowned novelist.
As he was at his computer for almost three hours entertaining himself with the silence, in the quiet solitude of his study, a great concept sparked in him, an amazing story that formed his new book by merging inspiration and creativity, bringing it to life. All the words that came out of the narrator's mouth could not possibly be utilized to write the novel; instead, they would be used to construct something that would serve as the start of his career. It will be just a series of short novels, but he made sure that it will, and will make an impact on his comeback. Comfortably sitting in his chair, he began to type the first words on his computer screen. A smile stretched across his face, a quiet expression of the pride growing within him as the story unfurled under his fingers.
"Any resemblance to actual people is entirely coincidental. This is a work of the author's fiction."