WORK

I was supposed to write. A page full of text, mixed with honey-coated links. I am supposed to tell the readers, the customers, how much we enjoyed serving them. How we basked in their spending spree the last holiday season, or how we’re excited to give them more opportunities to spend in the coming season. I just have to polish my words, neither too sharp, not too blunt, sharp enough to slide into the skin like a shimmering, silvery polished steel knife, between the ribs, just at the right angle. And they would be mesmerized, caught in my web of words. 

The rain is pattering on the window sill, and there’s music in the air, screaming from my laptop. I’m alone at my dorm bed, a half-open window next to me. It lets the rainy fragrance mix with the manufactured AC chill, so that I would feel productive, so I would feel like writing, like doing something meaningful with this mundane day of mine. Cross off one more day, who cares, right?

Which way am I going? Am I not supposed to be writing something, a newsletter, aha! 

My neck aches from the arching, and bending and typing. My knuckles crack. A thunder roars in the distance, as if to dismiss, to disagree with my flow of words, a ship hoots, there are birds chilling in the weather. My soft, fluffy T-shirt soaking up the fresh air, squirrels whistle, mangoes dangle in the trees. It looks like they won’t make it till sun down.

And here I am, tapping… tapping fiercely at my laptop, laughing and talking to myself, music by the side to water down the chaos, the sounds in this contained room, otherwise, people are going to think there’s a maniac chained in here. And look, he’s talking to himself!

An hour crawls by. The rain has died down.

I have a page full of text. A page full of bull shit. Now I press the faded ctrl key, and A three times, not two, not four. Three times like it’s a ritual. And hit the delete key, my middle finger presses hard into the keyboard.

Click. Dang!

I am where I was. An empty page.