I see letters jumping from the keyboard, words illuminated briefly and keep changing. I don't know what to write about, except maybe...
Looking at my fingers, pensive and frustrated. My stomach is aching from the futile brainstorm, and the clock flips me the bird every time I look at it, because another twenty minutes has gone by.
I could write about the tiny barrettes of light, the rainbows refracting off a crystal in my kitchen window, how it sparkles and turns the little area into a daylight disco, making it magic. I could write about the growing pile of clean laundry on and around the death couch, the clouds of heaven to my cats and a source of daily AM frustration. Trying to find a matching sock, or a fresh bra. Steaming the wrinkles out of my work shirts as I shower the past two nights of stagnant sleep sweat, accumulating in a damp puddle under my thighs and ass, and then I wonder what the hell am I not remembering from my dreams?
I watch my own actions, the way my hands seem to have a life of their own, bringing before me distraction upon distraction...nights are fruitless, and maybe my days would be better spent here or in a cafe with my notebook, instead of a job that has me running the hamster wheel for eight to nine hours a day for the privilege of staying exactly where I am, never ahead but not behind either. Escape is a fiendish plot twist that threatens to seduce me every day. I want to have the sheer courage (or stupidity) to stop, look up, clock out and then walk out, then spend the ten dollars I have saved on my Starbucks card on coffee that I'll drink while writing the novel that will make me rich and solve every problem I have inside. It will be an emotional tour de force that will bring me back and forth to Hell and Heaven in so many aspects that I will faint upon standing to leave. The fever will overtake my tense, aroused body and I will crawl like a mad fool to the exit door.
I have the faces of people from my past, living and dead, staring at me in expectation. Well? What are you waiting for?
You'll sleep when you're dead. Get to it.
It's too much pressure, Grandma. I love you, but back off.
One day it will come. Maybe then, so will I.