(no subject)
Three muses, though there aren't any real clear boundaries where one stops writing and another one starts.
You know what to do. Highlight. Click. Delete.
No.
Bad.
Writing.
Just keep typing, type even if there's nothing to write, just for the sound of the keys and something to do until something blinks. At least you're doing something. At least there's something moving on the screen, little bits of darkness in the light to keep you distracted.
Because, really, that's all you are, these days, isn't it? You're a cat. If you're not sleeping, you're chasing something around until it loses your interest. Until all the fluff is out of the mouse. Until the catnip high wears off and all you can do is lie on the sofa and stare at the dust motes. Even if there's not really catnip. And attention. There's never enough attention, is there, and even if there is, it's not the kind you want, because god help you if you should ever figure out what you want, nevertheless how to get it. If you figure out what you want, the world might explode. If there's even any slight bit of progress in your life, the world might explode.
Because maybe you're not a cat. Maybe you're just a fact. A fixed point in the universe, something that never changes while everything else does. A control group. "Well, so and so is still there, doing nothing or at least nothing of merit, so I must be doing better with my life". Anchored to the one semi-comfortable spot watching the rest of the world go by while you throw yourself against the glass walls until your hands bleed.
Until the walls aren't white anymore.
Maybe you're not a cat or a fact, my dear.
Maybe you're cracking.
You know what to do. Highlight. Click. Delete.
No.
Bad.
Writing.
Just keep typing, type even if there's nothing to write, just for the sound of the keys and something to do until something blinks. At least you're doing something. At least there's something moving on the screen, little bits of darkness in the light to keep you distracted.
Because, really, that's all you are, these days, isn't it? You're a cat. If you're not sleeping, you're chasing something around until it loses your interest. Until all the fluff is out of the mouse. Until the catnip high wears off and all you can do is lie on the sofa and stare at the dust motes. Even if there's not really catnip. And attention. There's never enough attention, is there, and even if there is, it's not the kind you want, because god help you if you should ever figure out what you want, nevertheless how to get it. If you figure out what you want, the world might explode. If there's even any slight bit of progress in your life, the world might explode.
Because maybe you're not a cat. Maybe you're just a fact. A fixed point in the universe, something that never changes while everything else does. A control group. "Well, so and so is still there, doing nothing or at least nothing of merit, so I must be doing better with my life". Anchored to the one semi-comfortable spot watching the rest of the world go by while you throw yourself against the glass walls until your hands bleed.
Until the walls aren't white anymore.
Maybe you're not a cat or a fact, my dear.
Maybe you're cracking.