Unwritten

It is always a nice feeling to start writing on a blank page. You type a few words. Then you are a little dissatisfied with what you have written. So you increase the line spacing. Then you type some more. Then you decrease the point size. A little more typing later, you go and change the font.

You work out so many diversions but can’t get yourself to use that decisive ‘Ctrl a’ command followed by hitting the ‘Del’ key. After a while you bite your lower lip and do just that. Then quickly, do the ‘Ctrl z’ thing and bring it all back.

Everything’s the same. The line spacing, the point size, the font – they are still disappointing.

You walk away. Smoke a cigarette. Get some coffee. Walk around aimlessly. Read the newspaper. Smoke one more. But there is a point beyond which you can’t push it away. You have to go back. You place your thumb firmly on ‘Ctrl’ and the middle finger on ‘w’. It’s done. The unblank page has vanished. The dirty grey background of a job unfinished stares at you. You stare back. In the silence of the night, the computer makes an indifferent hum. Later in the night you wake up dreaming of a vast and empty white room. A tiny speck of grey plods along in the whiteness.

You have a hangover in the morning but you haven’t had a drink the night before. And all of this is a whole load of shit that’s not good. Not even, ‘Not good enough’. Just, not good. All you have is a fantasy, of writing great stuff. Stuff that people will pay money to buy. And laugh when they read it, or cry or bite their nails, or simply think about their own life just a bit.