I’ve lost it
my sharpened tip
my pencil slips
out from my grip
the mind I had
has gone to waste
Silence on the page is like a flatline. Satisfying. Complete. There are no ups and downs. That angst for survival is stripped away from your skin like a moist old bandaid and your bloody gashes can heal in the cold open air. Fucking adjectives. They pile up in me so the next few pieces I write will be cluttered with ‘em. I wish I could write that without an apostrophe. I want to write in slang but I really care about those apostrophes.
I feel like I want to say sorry for not writing. I want there to be people in the world waking up every morning pissed because there’s no new content by me. I know there aren’t any, except for me. Writing is like masturbation but you never finish. You just get aggravated and shaft your dick and your hands cramp up.
But anyway. Sorry or fuck you, you pick. I’m back to the page.
I’ve documented my share of lit-constipation, and this week at the Conceited Crusade I’m supposed to pine for the days where words used to run down over the page like I took alphabetical laxatives. But this week I’ve had quite a healthy digestive system, thematically speaking (and literally, drink lots of water guys), so instead I wrote some flash fiction about divorce and killing bad guys. Read it here.
An hour at the gym and I’m 5 pages deep into notes for a new novel. I’ve finally synched my brain and body, fuck. The ultimate productivity. I feel like Bradley Cooper in Limitless. Nobody saw that movie but it’s an adequate reference.
Now back to a cafe somewhere where I can get fat from white mocha syrups and chocolate croissants and actually write it.
The sounds of coffee ground by the pound surround me and around me the nouns speak so loudly so proudly of how we are bound to be clowns or clones or clones of clowns, it pounds into my jaw but I choke it down because I’m just another joke in this broken town.
art source unknown