Diary Of A Platypus

The year is 2021.  A middle-aged platypus who is hours away from his thirty-fifth anniversary of being born returns home from his nine to five, or rather five to three in his case, job to his quaint, cozy apartment in a small United States town.  He sheds his work clothes to slip into something a little more comfortable as he turns on his outdated computer.  He dabbles in writing stories for others to read, doing so both for fun and hoping to eventually be able to become an author.  The old machine creaks to life and the platypus finds a document he hasn't touched in quite some time.  It is a pirate story that he started writing five years ago but hasn't touched in roughly three.  Somewhere along the way, he lost his muse, his inspiration, his desire.  The file has collected virtual dust for a long time.  He reads the pages he had written, hoping to find some spark to fuel his passion once more, but the fire is dead.  He doesn't dare trash the story, hoping that he will one day return to this piece and finish it, but in the back of his mind he knows he probably never will.  Instead, the platypus opens a new, blank page to start a new story.
He sits there a moment, putting on one of his music playlists to give him something to listen to while he writes.  Music always seemed to help him bring his vision to life on paper.  He couldn't draw very well, but he could paint a picture using his vocabulary.  The issue was his muse.  It was a fickle thing, much like many muses were.  One day he would have a small desire to write something, whether it was a short story or a simple paragraph, but by the time he could act upon these desires, the flame would flicker out.  Years would pass before he attempted to write anything again, and now he sits there looking at a white screen with just a blinking black bar waiting for his input.  The machine, which clings to life for him, waits patiently to be used once more.  The big dilemma though is the subject of the story.  The platypus could think up dozens of ideas to make stories about, but most of them were just fan-made fictions about some of his favorite works of television, cinema, and game.  While most would likely not have an issue reading such a work, he often felt that he should try to stick to original stories, something that he created instead of borrowed against.
The platypus pondered, sitting there trying to dig in the many layers of his mind for something to write about.  The problem was that his most popular work was itself a fan-fiction, and very few of his own ideas had been read since.  That never deterred him in the past, but it was something that started bothering him as of late, even though he realized it shouldn't.  He could try again on the works he had written already, perhaps try to reboot them and make them more grandiose.  The platypus figured if Hollywood could do it, then why not himself, but then he struck that idea from his mind.  Each of his works were precious to him, even if nobody did read them.  He poured his heart into them.  The thought of expanding on them and making sequels to his stories did cross his mind, but that might be redundant without any readers he felt.  Sure it could expand his universe, but until he could shake the "why bother if nobody is reading" feeling, it wasn't likely to happen.  Perhaps one day he'll change his mind on that, but only time can tell.
The platypus then toyed with the idea of writing an erotic story.  He knew those usually generated attention.  He could write a story of two lovers on the biggest night of their lives, finally embracing each other as a married pair, or maybe a hot and steamy one night stand that would be nothing but raunchy fun.  He used to write erotic parts into some of his stories, but only when they felt right.  The platypus often felt like just making a sexual story for the sake of being about sex was not his style, that he'd rather write something with a fully fleshed plot and character development over something that was essentially masturbation material.  He knew there were a few who used to read his works that would greatly love the idea of him writing such a story, but he rarely felt a spark with that type of source material.  He pondered some more, sitting there as the black bar continued to blink.  He was trying his hardest to put words onto the screen before him, but alas it felt like it was going to be another wasted night.
The platypus needed inspiration badly, to somehow find a muse.  He sat there and reflected on the events of the previous year and the half-month of the current.  Many crazy events did happen, each that could easily get a good story going, but he'd rather write something from the heart, something that didn't add more fuel to that fire.  He wanted to write something that was going to make people feel good inside, not make them remember the pain they were feeling from the world going mad.  The platypus looked within, to try and find something within his own heart that spoke to him that would make a good read, something to enlighten his audience.  He often thought very little of himself, that he was not interesting and a waste of attention.  He never managed to accomplish his dreams nor live the life he wanted, and yet people still seemed to like him and were cherishing their time with him.  That is when some sparks hit him: friends.
Over the years, the platypus had accrued a collection of friends, or those he could easily call so.  He had only made physical contact with a few of them, most of them being more of an internet friendship akin to a pen pal in the less technological days, but he considered them friends all the same.  He often felt like a burden on them when he would talk to them, feeling he wasn't worth the attention they paid him despite their best attempts to correct his ways of thinking.  They made him happy when he did get to talk to them even if he felt like he shouldn't be bothering them.  A few of them drove him crazy, but he always knew not every friendship was going to be easy.  Some of them could make him laugh real easy and help brighten even his darkest days.  A few of them wanted to be more than friends, or at least redefine their friendship with sexuality added to the mix.  Only a couple had the distinct honor of being his closest, best friends.  He cherished having all of them the same and wouldn't dare trade any one of them away for any gain the world could offer him.
As he reflected, the platypus started feeling something: a spark, a fire, a desire.  He finally found something he wanted to write about: how he had been feeling.  He doubted anybody would read it, but hoped that if anybody did, maybe they could look inside themselves and find their own spark.  While it wasn't the life he wanted when he was a kid, the platypus did enjoy the life he had now.  His job wasn't the most glamorous, but it paid the bills and put food in his belly.  He had fun working, being able to goof around with his coworkers.  The customers did seem to appreciate him, so much, so they occasionally gave him words of praise and, rarely, small donations to show so.  He had a family that did care for him, despite having quite heated debates and arguments with them often.  It was a passionate family, but a loving one, and he knew they all looked out for him and cared deeply for him.  He had his friends whom he would be lost without, some he met through fandoms following the television, cinema, and video games he was interested in, and some through other forms of media that also made him happy.  He occasionally felt alone, but he knew that with them and his family by his side, he was never truly alone.
The newfound insight allowed the platypus to start typing away, keys clicking and clacking furiously and the blinking bar started trailing letters behind it.  He just started letting his thought flow freely onto the aged machine, finding himself lost in his writing.  He no longer cared if anybody would read his work, it was something he had to write.  The music was pointless as he no longer heard it over his fingers working their magic onto the keyboard.  Seconds turned into minutes and minutes started turning into hours as words turned into sentences and sentences turned into paragraphs.  A story was being fleshed out, but it wasn't on the platypus had originally set out to write.  He found a way to convey his feelings through a character, and, even though there was no real plot or story line to this story, it started making him feel good inside to have these words jotted down.  A short time later, the platypus, now satisfied with what was on his screen, would look over his latest musing.  He wasn't sure it would be read, but he was happy with it.  He wanted to make sure it looked polished before he would put it somewhere where it could be seen: the internet.  It felt good to him to finally be able to write something once again, and he hoped that maybe this would give him the desire to write more.  He missed writing badly as it allowed him to express himself and allowed him to escape to a different world when the real one wasn't to his liking, much like reading a good story would do.  Perhaps there will be more from the platypus in the future, but for now, the platypus would like to thank you for taking the time to read his little story and hopes that you enjoyed it.  He enjoyed typing it for you.