Blinking. That damn cursor is blinking again. How much time wasted, staring at the empty white page, watching the stupid cursor blink? He grew to hate the cursor much in the same way that people grew to hate the sound of their alarm clock. It offended him. It signified all of his inadequacies. All of things left undone, that he was unable to do. Why a flashing black line? Why not an arrow pointing to the spot or maybe a pretty colored box? Then it occurred to him that there were probably programs that would accomplish such a thing. He then realized he would grow to hate them just the same. And then more importantly, he further realized that none of this was the point.
The point was he was stuck, more than just stuck. Stuck is a momentary event, a temporary condition that eventually changes. To say that he was stuck would be to say that the Great Wall of China is stuck. Writers block is one thing, it happens to us all, but this had been going on for years. Years and years spent sitting, staring at this cursed blinking line. A line that taunted him, its flashing akin to the rhythm of a ticking clock, marking all of the seconds, minutes, hours, days, months, years wasted.
He worried it would drive him insane. So much information trapped inside, clamoring for escape. It wasn't always like this. He used to be able to write. He used to be able to set pen to paper and exorcise the thoughts like demons, trapping them on the page. He would write and then he would feel better. But now they were trapped and had remained that way for some time. They were building and growing, scratching the inside of his skull for release. Their numbers swelled exponentially to the point of fear of his skull bursting for the sheer volume of it. And not this "look at me, I'm crazy" kind of fear, but a legitimate fear of survival.
He had tried many things over the years to get his thoughts out, little writing exercises and mental tricks. Had tried writing again by hand like in the old days. He had tried different word processing programs. He had spent the money on dictation software. That was fun for a minute. It never wrote what he actually said, but the surrealistic nightmares that came out instead were at least amusing, and something. He searched for inspiration but the problem was not the creative part. He could envision worlds and characters in such exquisite detail it was if he knew them better than the people in real life. He could live an entire lifetime in a single dream within a single night. The rise and fall of empires crossed in moments idly staring at the wall. If the electrons circling the nucleus of an atom were actually planets circling a sun and each atom in a molecule were a separate solar system and each molecule in a grain of sand were a universe, he could look upon the desert and know the story of each person living on each little planet in each little atom. But when he would sit down to write it out, they just all went away, as if he forgot the English language. He longed for a device he could just plug into his head that would just suck everything out. He would slit his wrists and bleed all over the page if it would form a coherent sentence. Just something, anything, to get it out.
You see, it was not just about getting the thoughts out or his decent into madness. It was his duty. It was his duty to write these things down, to breathe life into these creations. How many had suffered because of his inability to perform the simplest of tasks? How many had died because he did not write down the means to save them? How many went unborn because he was not there to document it? How many universes sat inert, not receiving their big bang to set them in motion? How many others spiraled out of control on a path of self-destruction? The Bible says on the seventh day God rested, but God was not done. Anyone who lives in this world and knows its incompleteness knows that if there were a being that created this world, there is no way it was finished. What if on that seventh day, God got writers block? And further, what if God got writers block because I stopped writing God's story? When billions cry out, beseeching their creator, "why have you forsaken me," they get no answer because I do not write it. The fate of the world, the universe, all universes, and all planes of existence hangs in the balance while my fingertips sit poised above the keyboard, waiting to create life. As I sit idle, the walls between realities crumble. The minions of a million hells venture forth and the slaughter of all life is both strange and beautiful and completely unnecessary. If only I could just write something?
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My eyes come back into focus as I return from the tangent my mind just took off on. I stare at this little blinking cursor, now standing at the end of everything I have just written. I look at it and I smile. Writing about the fact that you can't write is still writing. Welcome back PulseHEAD. Thanks Tim.
D
rating: 8
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