‘The blank of the page eats you up. It swallows you whole. Digests you. Shits you out.’
She said this with a far-off look in her eyes like she was gazing upon a reverie.
‘You have to learn how to accept the process, don’t fight it. That will only make it harder. You want to know the trick? There isn’t one. It’s just the process. Pick up the pen and start slashing. Open up the tab and start typing. It’s the simplest things that are always the most difficult.’ She finished with her eyes on mine. They were mostly green—her eyes.
‘You gotta have a routine. Every writer has one. For example: I write best when I’m in my room with a fresh cup of coffee and an incense burning somewhere close by. There just must be some type of background noise going on too, whether it be rainstorm noises or just plain old jazz. Nothing with words though, that would throw me off. Unless it was The Office or something.’ She’s wearing a white wife-beater that’s too small for her. Her shorts look ready to burst and her hair begs for a comb. She’s pretty though. Not “shit yourself pretty” mind you, but pretty enough to turn some heads.
‘The easiest way to build a routine is to simply start writing every day. It doesn’t matter if it’s for two minutes or two hours. Just get some words down on paper or up on a screen or whatever. Get that shit outa your head! I’m telling you, that’s the only way you’ll get any better. Wanna know why I’m telling you this? Because I can tell you’re not a writer. I can tell by the way you type. You go too slow. When you do try to go fast every other key you press is the backspace. I can tell by the way you hold your pencil, by the way you shape your letters. I can tell by the way you sit. Shit dude, I can even smell it on you. I can tell you’re not a writer. Not yet anyway.’
She was right. Who was I back then anyway? Objectively, I was a loser. At the time I was smoking too much, drinking too much, eating too much. I spent most of my time watching anime and movies based on ‘true stories’. I lived on campus but try asking about me and the only response you’d get back is “Who?”. I wasn’t an ugly kid but I wasn’t going to the gym religiously just yet. All around, let’s just say I had a lot of room for improvement and I knew it.
See, that’s arguably the best and worst aspect of my whole situation. Best because I knew I needed to change. Worst because there’s a change that is needed and every minute I spent not changed is a minute spent on bullshit that I knew was bullshit. If you think about it too much the time gets away from you.
I wasn’t always on my bullshit though. Throughout my latter years of adolescence there were moments of productivity, short little spouts of growth here and there. I know the difference between spending and saving. I know how it feels to live with a healthy body. I understand what it means to do things right. This knowledge makes it all the worse for me whenever I find myself doing wrong. But on the flip side, it makes it all the better whenever I happen to find myself doing right.
It's cold again. Staying warm is tougher alone. My breath is a cloud. It's cold again yet the fan is on 3. I do it to myself. I claim to like the cold even though I know warm is better. I almost forgot what it meant to be lonely- then it got cold again. It's cold again and the window is not closed. I opened it myself.
His moves were wild. To his credit he did literally the best anyone could do at this here job. He wore a red morph suit with the top cut out so his locks could go wild with the rest of him. He caught attention like a magnet. It was a Tuesday evening, a day like any other, when John happened to fall victim to this wild man’s pull. He watched the man work, arms flailing, spine twisting, hands waving, shoulders shaking, head bobbing. His bending was at the waist. John felt the urge to talk to this man.
The way the wild man moved made it obvious that his body would require ever so many breaks here and there throughout the shift, however many depending on how long the shift. John knew this and decided to stay until such a break. He waited longer than expected. Finally the wild man stopped, face dripping, chest heaving. John walked closer.
“Is this your job?”
“Yes. I’ve just been promoted.”
The wild man was proud of his promotion. He didn’t know his boss couldn’t afford to repair the skydancer they’ve been using, that this “promotion” was his way of pinching pennies. But that didn’t matter. The wild man loves his job.
“I didn’t know someone could actually do this as a job.”
“Me neither.”
“How do you do it?”
The wild man looked at John who saw no eyes.
“The suit hides the needle marks.”
It's cold in my room. The fan blows around air conditioned to be ever so. Covering my frame is a green sweat suit. I'm a Champion as I type. It's cold in my room. This isn't what one would call simply chilly. I shiver in my sweats. Neither side of the pillow is warm. There's frost on my window. It's cold in my room. I remember a time when it was warm, here in my room. There was laughter and spilt coffee. You wore my blanket over your hoodie. We were warm as we sat in the screen's glow. Now you're gone. You're gone and it's cold in my room. It's so cold.
As a master of death I relish the process. Simple swatting doesn't quite do it for me. I like to watch the suffering, the last twitches as life leaves the body. I'd snip the wings first if I could. There's this one method I prize above all others when it comes to Reds. It's date of origin should be a global holiday. It's called Terro's Liquid Ant Bait. The active ingredient in the bait interferes with the ants' digestive systems, eventually killing the ants within 24-48 hours after consumption. This slow kill gives the worker ants enough time to get back and share the bait with the whole colony. This method of genocide is ingenious if nothing else. If you look closely enough, you may see the clear liquid translucently through the abdomen. Give it time. After a while, you see these fuckers moving slower. Soon the container in which the bait is held becomes littered with bodies- what a beautiful sight. The ants come no more.
He lives with the light at the end of his square- with the end of his cigarette. He thinks with the fire at the tip of his cigarette. His thoughts are of her only. Over her he has no power- her whims, her thoughts are her own. She's leaving here to go to her own home. He lights another cigarette. This fire he knows he can control. He smokes the leaf that kills it's soil- it soaks up all that's around. It's a weed in its own home. He longs for something more than what he has. He lights another square. He wont let the flame go out. The flame is his life- the closest thing to life he has. The ash floats. The butt burns. His thoughts are of her. He waits for her shift to end as the tip of his cigarette burns. He yearns. He yearns for something more, for something he does not have- something he cannot control. His thoughts are of her. He's on his last cigarette. The butt burns.
