Silent Pages, Unread

A short story that explores the theme of disillusionment, and a little bit of artistic expression.

Silence.

That was the only thing in my head. Before me, stood all I have always desired – a screaming crowd of 50,000, their voice ready to devour every word spilled from my mouth. My hands clung to the lectern, my blurry vision fixated on the stage director as her finger curled, counting down. This was the zenith of my dream, the pinnacle of my aspirations. Here I stood, ready to captivate the roaring crowd by reading the first chapter of my magnus opus “The Boy Who Chased Death.”

They say when you face death, your life flashes before your eyes, but in that moment, mine flickered into view. From falling in love with my first Oscar Wilde book, to my first attempt at writing a short story I will always hate. Followed by the endless emails to publishers and agents, the fervent plea for a mere chance – a chance to take millions through the maze that is my mind. The flashbacks turned more recent, the passionate mails to the organizers of the International Book Convention, the elation of securing a sponsorship, the resounding acclaim my book received. The reminder that everything I ever wanted was finally in my grasp. And then … silence.

Here I am, two months later, seated in the therapist’s office. The room exude sterility, its clinical atmosphere casting a coldness on everything it contains. My eyes remain fixated on the worn armrests – silent witnesses to the countless restless hands that have sought solace here - just like mine. Across from me, the therapist leaned forward, her compassionate and warm eyes meeting my empty gaze.

“So, tell me, what brings you here?” She started, her voice insistent, yet gentle.

This was my first session, and aside from a brief summary, she has no idea why I am sitting on her couch; my empty eyes refusing to stray away from hers.

“I don’t know. That’s why I am here,” I reply, my voice carrying the pain of frustration and confusion I have lived with for weeks. I’ve been struggling with the reality of what happened, that moment when the whole world went silent.

“Well then, let’s try to figure it out together. Can you describe how it happened, maybe we can try untangling the strands from there?” She asked, undeterred by my lack of clarity.

I took a deep breath and started “One moment, I was walking up the steps to the central stage at the International Book Convention, consumed by elation at the idea of reading my book to thousands of eager listeners. It was the culmination of a lifelong dream. But then, in the blink of an eye, the world around me fell silent. The deafening roar of the crowd, the instructions whispered through the earpiece, even my own thoughts—everything evaporated into a void. All I recall is my life flashing before me in that suspended moment.”

The therapist reclined in her chair, taking a moment to digest the information I had just shared. The silence that ensued stretched on for what felt like forever, filling the room with an uneasy tension. Finally, breaking the stillness, she asked, "And what was your dream?"

"To write," I replied, my voice laced with uncertainty. "To create worlds and stories that would put millions of people through the labyrinth of my mind. I wanted to become a legendary writer."

She nodded thoughtfully. "Interesting. Why?"

Her question caught me off guard, and my confusion was evident. "What do you mean, why?"

"When people have dreams or aspirations, there are always underlying motivations, reasons that drive them. That's what I meant. Why did you want to become a legendary author?"

I was taken aback, my mind racing to find an answer. All the responses I had previously held onto suddenly felt hollow and fake – like telling a child Santa is real. As I dived into the depths of my thoughts, a realization struck me.

"To feel less alone," I confessed, the words carrying a newfound weight. It was a reason I had never consciously acknowledged before. It had always lingered in the background, an intriguing notion waiting to be explored. But now, it felt like I had peeled away the mask hiding the truth.

"There's something about knowing that millions of people connect with your work, that they see themselves in your words," I continued, my voice gaining strength. "They’ll tell you it's as if you're reading their minds, capturing their innermost thoughts. And in that connection, that shared experience, you realize you're not alone. You're not just the odd one out; there are millions of others who feel the same way. It's a reassurance, a sense of belonging that I've always craved."

"That sounds so beautiful and genuine," the therapist remarked, pausing as if expecting a response or continuation from me. It was a classic therapist's technique, allowing an uncomfortable silence to linger in the hope that I would break it and reveal more about what troubled me. Despite being aware of this tactic, I couldn't resist filling the silence.

"Genuine, perhaps," I replied, my voice tinged with uncertainty. "But I'm not entirely sure about beautiful."

The therapist nodded, her expression indicating that she left it to me to elaborate.

"After my first book received wide acclaim, I thought I would finally feel that connection I had always yearned for," I admitted, the unspoken question hanging heavy in the air. It was the elephant in the room, the one I had skillfully avoided addressing since the launch of my book, 'Are you fulfilled now?'

Taking a deep breath to gather my thoughts, I continued, "The initial weeks were exhilarating. Everyone praised my writing, calling it emotional and realistic. I appeared on talk shows and interviews, basking in the glory of being the golden boy. And for a while, it felt good..." I trailed off, my mind involuntarily replaying those moments.

"But?" the therapist prodded, her intention clear in saving time and delving deeper into my underlying emotions.

"But then I realized," I resumed, my voice filled with a mix of pain and resignation, "to those people, it was just another story. No matter how well-crafted or emotionally charged, it remained a work of fiction, a means to detach themselves from reality. And that realization hurt me deeply."

I paused, fully aware of how my next admission might sound. "It might sound insane or self-conceited, but it truly hurt. It felt as if I had given a piece of my soul to the world say, only for it to be casually glanced at and then shelved, gathering dust. The connection I had hoped to establish through millions of readers seemed lost. They could never truly understand me, not because I'm special, but because I'm reduced to a mere author in their eyes, an idea of a person meant to entertain, but not a person anymore."

The therapist's compassionate response resonated with me, acknowledging the crumbling of my dream and the profound hurt it caused. She understood the deep human need for connection and how its absence can leave us feeling utterly lost. As she spoke, her words cut through the silence, piercing my heart with their truth.

Silently, I nodded, unable to find the right words to express the whirlwind of emotions swirling within me. It was as if she had unlocked a hidden chamber within my soul, exposing the raw pain I had been carrying.

Her gentle voice broke the silence once more, inviting me to share my thoughts on what had transpired during that fateful moment at the convention. I hesitated, grappling with the notion that perhaps I had buried the truth within me, afraid to confront it head-on.

"I'm not entirely certain, but I'll try my best," I responded, my voice trembling with a mix of uncertainty and determination. "In that moment, as I stood on the stage and looked out at the sea of faces, I didn’t see people but mere outlines of heads. Their cheers and anticipation for the first chapter of my book, a book that had long been forgotten on their shelves, shattered my hope of forging a genuine connection. I had bared my soul to them, yearning for understanding, only to be met with a craving for more, a demand for a sequel. It was then that I realized they saw me not as a person, but as a commodity, a means to their entertainment. Standing there, a wave of futility washed over me, rendering my dreams and aspirations meaningless. Maybe my life flashed before me, not because I was dying, but my dreams were. And what is a life without dreams?"