I’m tired, so tired, looking at a screen full of things I do not want to read. There are stories, twisted tales, those who seek attention and those who pretend not to. There are those who in any other format I would deem perverted, yet, here, I am supposed to accept. This is not what I want. This is so not what I want.
There are words piled before me, words I use, but not in the order I would use them. There are sentences and syntax set to pictures, both moving and still, songs and celebrations, lives from here, there and everywhere, and none of them mine. There are lives lost and lives found and some somewhere in between. I try to indulge them, help even, but it is with a heart steeped in regret. Why? Just because. I need no reason nor excuse, I’m beyond that, no debts owed.
Answer them all, they say. It’s for your own good, they scream. Get involved. Sell yourself. Porn your life for the greater good. And most do. And most will. But I won’t.
So, in the arms of exhaustion, I realise, all I want to do is write. It is the only thing I’m good at, and the only thing I wish. I have so much to exhale. Such a lot. This is what I must do. And this is what I shall.
Take a breath. Close your eyes. Put your fingers to the keyboard. And smile. At last.