[drabble/pseudoblog] in the bits of my life
if you look amongst the bits of your life, somewhere in the midst of it you'll find the fragments of inspiration that you seek.
"so spin a story," he says airily, as if it's the easiest thing in the world. the smoke from the cigarette between the fingers of the hand he waves around swirls like wine, so many doodles manifesting in the air.
you lift another bunch of soggy fries into your mouth, fingers slick with the oily film it left behind. god only knows what it is coating your insides with, but between the fast-flattening beer, cigarette smoke and much too much caffeine, what does it matter? maroon 5's doin' dirt thrums from the stereo, soundtrack of your life. meori eoggae mureup bal, chin thrusting, shoulders rolling, torso bobbing. you never could resist a sick beat.
see, the problem is, you never do have anything to say. not like other writers, artists, social critics who have loads of beef with the world or great ideas on how to deal with it. you, you're fine with how it's working. sure, it isn't perfect, not all it's cracked up to be, and your life could indeed be better. but between a rock and a hard place isn't a bad place to be, especially if neither are moving anytime soon. who's moved your cheese? karma is a mousetrap in the rat race, or so you sincerely hope. purpose-driven life? too much purpose invariably means no life. rich dad, poor dad? yours is neither. somewhere floating in between flights of fantasy and depths of despair (both terribly overused clichés, you note wryly) there must be a space for what flows from your fingertips onto the grimy keyboard. only in that grey nothingness it's hard to wrap your fingers around anything, much less concretise it, advertise it, monetise it, whateverthefuckyoucanthinkofitise it.
over the smokescreen between us he regards your thoughts as if they are a film projected on the screen of your face. evidently a movie he's seen before - no critique emerges. he finishes his wine and sets the glass down on the mess that you like to call your desk. it's time for bed, and he doesn't need to say anything for you to know it better than your own heartbeat. you hesitate, as always - sleep is always calling, and you know better than anybody that you could get a truckload more of her. but damned if you'll let her dictate your life, time-sucker that she is.
[stopping here, let's pick this up again some other time]
"so spin a story," he says airily, as if it's the easiest thing in the world. the smoke from the cigarette between the fingers of the hand he waves around swirls like wine, so many doodles manifesting in the air.
you lift another bunch of soggy fries into your mouth, fingers slick with the oily film it left behind. god only knows what it is coating your insides with, but between the fast-flattening beer, cigarette smoke and much too much caffeine, what does it matter? maroon 5's doin' dirt thrums from the stereo, soundtrack of your life. meori eoggae mureup bal, chin thrusting, shoulders rolling, torso bobbing. you never could resist a sick beat.
see, the problem is, you never do have anything to say. not like other writers, artists, social critics who have loads of beef with the world or great ideas on how to deal with it. you, you're fine with how it's working. sure, it isn't perfect, not all it's cracked up to be, and your life could indeed be better. but between a rock and a hard place isn't a bad place to be, especially if neither are moving anytime soon. who's moved your cheese? karma is a mousetrap in the rat race, or so you sincerely hope. purpose-driven life? too much purpose invariably means no life. rich dad, poor dad? yours is neither. somewhere floating in between flights of fantasy and depths of despair (both terribly overused clichés, you note wryly) there must be a space for what flows from your fingertips onto the grimy keyboard. only in that grey nothingness it's hard to wrap your fingers around anything, much less concretise it, advertise it, monetise it, whateverthefuckyoucanthinkofitise it.
over the smokescreen between us he regards your thoughts as if they are a film projected on the screen of your face. evidently a movie he's seen before - no critique emerges. he finishes his wine and sets the glass down on the mess that you like to call your desk. it's time for bed, and he doesn't need to say anything for you to know it better than your own heartbeat. you hesitate, as always - sleep is always calling, and you know better than anybody that you could get a truckload more of her. but damned if you'll let her dictate your life, time-sucker that she is.
[stopping here, let's pick this up again some other time]