As you might have noted thus far, in your journey through life, grand gestures and powerful proclamations come to us with ease and grace. However, their attainment is not such an easy task as one would expect.

Destiny's death had shaken me on more levels than I cared to admit, and though I vowed to make the world a better place in her name that altered nothing for her, for her grief-stricken family. It changed nothing for the light that got to shine for such a brief moment and yet managed to glow more brightly than the stars themselves.

Nevertheless, I was determined to prevail. It was my sole purpose in life to conceive something that would provide people with enjoyment, not death. Yet, I provided them with nothing.

I stared at the empty pages for hours, my mind proposing and rejecting a variety of ideas, storylines as if they were just a weed in the garden of my imagination. Even the pen itself seemed to sense my reluctance and thus stayed more peaceful than I had ever seen it before.

Of course, to make matters worse, K was continuously checking on me as if I were a fragile old man. It was irritating, to say the least. Even more vexatious than unwanted disturbance was his lack of creativity in our conversations.

"Yo, man! Are you alive?" He would ask, usually yelling through the door.

"Yes, I am feeling rather well, I do appreciate the inquiry." I would answer (though my answers did vary since I am, after all, the Great Bard).

"Cool, dude!" He would answer.

That was usually all the communication we had, which as far as I was concerned, was too much. His persistent interruptions were proving detrimental for my already battered concentration.

I who have written such works of art that my name is the one known to all, young and old alike, was unable to construct even the simplest of sentences to improve lives for other human beings. Besides, what genre was I supposed to write to have nothing but happy endings? It was an impossibility, and yet I knew it was required of me to find a solution.

To make matters worse, this clothing people cover themselves in, is the most torturous ordeal I have ever experienced. Each item of clothing is either too tight, too revealing, or both. Even for people my age, the clothes are rather uncomfortable and I miss my garments of the past dearly.

Everything appeared to be working against me, yet I knew it was but an illusion that my mind used to trick me into not doing what I was set out to do. It was trying to shield me from another stab of pain that would have followed failure.

Having been doing this type of work for a while, I knew what had to be done. However, I feared the power that could be unleashed from what I had erroneously assumed to be a common pen.

Then I recalled that I am always the one who has the power. I am the one who wields the pen, not the other way around. As I once said: "I'll call for pen and ink and write my mind."

That was what I had to do. I had to write what was on my mind and pray that the right words would come to me, that they would heed my call. Faith was something one had to possess to be able to achieve any progress.

My whole life that was what I tried to do and though it served me well, for the most part, I did experience problems before my life as Shakespeare had ended. Perhaps that was something that occurred but once in one's life, and I was resolute not to allow it to tarnish my confidence in my methods.

With quivering hands, I shaped the first letters of the new story, a new chapter. Hopefully, a new and improved chapter of my life as well.

To my utter disappointment what came out of that wretched pen was not happiness, it was utter gloom. My anger and sadness at a loss of such a young life poured out of me. They raged on my pages as a storm that would never end.

My words swept the world in a tornado of negative emotions that I could not control. I was never strong enough to withstand the power of my sentiments, I always had to release them through my writing.

It turned out that from the darkness of my new home, arouse another darkness that was always present in me but never so prevalent. The darkness was one of the depths of my soul that I rarely released, terrified of what it might leave in its wake.

Abruptly, I stopped as the loud howling and banging on my window managed to break whatever dark spell I was under. The weather outside seemed but a perfect reflection of the turmoil that roared through my heart.

It took me much less time to realize that it was my heart's turmoil that ran rampage on the unsuspecting town, on the innocent people who had done me no wrong. Thus, I forced myself to write about the clear skies, which I did not feel. Still, it worked better than I expected.

The clouds parted almost immediately, and the sun shone, drying the land rather quickly as if the storm was nothing but a mere dream or nightmare.

Instead of risking harm to anyone else, I resolved to take a walk, to leave the pen behind and try to work through my feelings the way the other humans did, through grieving. Though I feared I possessed no knowledge of how such a thing was done.

Leaving was a much bigger struggle than anticipated. In my haste to escape the pen's power, I managed to push over the coffee cup next to me, thus scalding my toes. Furthermore, the liquid managed to get onto my work, although I was unsure whether that was a good or bad occurrence having in mind what my work could do.

After quickly applying an ointment I was informed by K was used for such things, I hurried off to the park, undeterred by the pen's sinister plans to keep me at home. Though, having in mind how much pain walking had caused me, I do not think that to have been the greatest idea that has ever blessed my mind.

Anyhow, that was the turning point for me, what might seem like an innocent little stroll to some, turned to be crucial for my future path.