Was it but a fraction of a second’s difference between himself in the present and his reflection in the past? He knew the man he looked at was the smarter of the two. For another moment spent staring was another moment lost. As a thousand times before him and a thousand times to come, he felt his knees trembling. He had trapped his reflection there, Unable to move, suffering. Why should I suffer alone he thought? Yet as always, this was a staring competition he could not win. He was always the first to break. The view was no longer admirable.
Poor Esteban; how he longed for writers block. Had that been his only trouble he could have pushed on. Yet, is it any wonder that this was not the case. He had long since dreamed of writing a screenplay. His Characters were magnificent. He had a mother whom any child would die for. Then there was Marcy, another strong and confident lady with her middle finder constantly erect to the pressures of a male dominated society. He had a cruel villain, if not two, the kind to make anyone seethe. Yet as his fingers strolled along and the clicking continued it dawned on him. His leading boy did not have a father. There was a biological father character, a God like character with no imperfections and no flaws. Yet in 89 pages of dialogue he had somehow and completely unbeknownst to him, never wrote a single line of conversation between them.
This all dawned on Esteban after he had tried writing a climactic scene; a father and son sharing an embracing moment through a deep and inspiring conversation. He was stuck for words, and thought looking back over their previous interactions would help move him along. Page by page, scene by scene, not a single word spoken to one another. Had they not shared a scene together then a conclusion could be drawn, but Esteban’s subconscious was far too cruel to allow himself this pleasure. It was all there in the writing, or lack thereof, the massacre of an entire relationship. 89 pages down, the most touching moment thus far and the audience have had no indication that these two characters even like each other. He could not put his mother’s words to a man’s mouth; they seemed to nurturing, too honest and too sympathetic. Besides, she had her own part, her own style, and the majority of the screen time. Where could he draw the emotion from? From whose eyes could he plagiarize the tears?
It seemed to Esteban that even his non-fictional characters were be absent from his non-fictitious life.
As gloomy as this all did sound, Esteban had been looking for the strength and means to make his main character stand out. There was a tremendous amount of adults operating for him, around him and without him. Thus there was a wicked smile on his face, when he finished his last passage, before he retired to bed. He knew where the strength in his main character could come from. He would find it in himself and that was something he could draw on in abundance. This was the reflection that he could beat, the one that stilled his knees.