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The Blinking Line

"The infinite battle of procrastinating."

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Author's Notes

"In anger of not being able to think of something, I wrote this, enraged at the blinking line of my Final Draft cursor."

C1…C2…C3… Cervical vertebrate pulling, bones dislodging. Snap! Like a fat leather boot stopping on a bag of Cheetos. Tongue out like a thirsty dog, panting as my eyes escape my skull. I enter an abysmal tunnel, closing in on me. I can hear bells, ringing and ringing, fading into a stagnate buzz. Peace at last, like a steady ocean swell, my vessel rocking gently across an endless blue horizon. My last thought; So this is what death feels like.  Like a shot of morphine, my body swaying from gravity, the rope tugging against my neck.  Oh these auld times, what a meaningless drag of a time, to waste my breaths on these troglodytes.  I wish I would have done a lot less; an absurd bag of meat is what I am. The fantasy has ended, my brain back to the blank canvas. The white void, a fate worst than the dangling puppet. 


Time becoming one with I, and I incomprehensible. Seeing my previous sitcom flash before me. No laugh track, but still amusing to the observer. A cruel smut on this celestial snake trial. Traveling in ungodly speeds, I come to the early hours of my spiral. I becoming one with I. But the page still with the damn blinking line. The line of hesitation and procrastination. The line in which I wage war against every godforsaken morning. Taunting me, enticing me to avert me eyes to more colorful images.


Coffee, where is thy elixir of good thought? My mouth open, like a bottom feeder, sucking the life of the room. Swollen bloodshot eyes, a good night of rummaging, don’t tell my liver. Smelling like yesterday’s ash tray and feeling like yesterday’s cigarette…burnt out.  Pacing across my room, the eternal blank page of my computer screen. The cursor flashing, mocking the empty white void. Not a single word in about a week. Reflecting on the producer squawking behind his Oakwood desk, “So when are you going to have the script done? Feet up, leather oxford shoes, my gaunt eyes reflecting on the impeccable shine.  Tasked with writing a shitty lifetime film.


Considering that inspiration only comes in waves, and I have only caught one. Still standing at the shoreline, looking at the swells, nothing but nothing.  A lucky oscillation of thought, to grace my grey matter but once, and never again. How do I replicate the impossible? To capture the lighting again, be a conduit of creativity. Now I am a repellent of good fortune, stuck in my litigation of character and plot. To recite Joseph Campbell, A hero of a thousand excuses! The hell with it, let’s watch some cat videos instead.

Written by dcdan2
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