June 30, 2009


Alone. The darkness surrounds me. I am left with no other choice. The pills spilled. Doesn’t matter. I took all I could. I hope they do the trick. I’ve had enough of this. Compelling? I’ll give them compelling. I’ll give them fireworks; I’ll give them something to celebrate. Nothing could compare to the pain, the agony I had. No plot? How can I type, slave away at the computer without a purpose? There are so many stories to tell, but no roads to travel down. Where can I find the destination if I must wander in the woods, no light to guide me? This reeks of a crisis, the tortured writer, and no subject. I can’t do that. I might accidentally weave in plot elements. I can’t do that. Not allowed. I want to start over again, but I know I’ll get to the same point, lost in the woods, with nothing to guide me, and I’ll have no better reference than that.
I’m looking for a line, le bon mot. But none find me. Oh, muse, where art thou? Hover over my shoulder; tell me what I must do. The conflict will remain, and I will have nothing of substance, only concluding until I can fill the page with this meaningless drivel. I will have completion, but no finality. Even when I stop the typing, the thinking, I will wonder about my audience. Is this what you want, if not, what do you want. I cannot tell. It’s all so vague at this point. My eyes are becoming blurry, my words, just little bugs upon the screen. The cessation is near, but the finality is never to come, just my wondering, is it enough?