Static

Madness.

There was madness in any writer’s soul, for who but a masochist would want to write for a living? (Who was that one writer that said or maybe it was a poet) How could one do this—who could do this—accomplish this Sisyphean task of rolling the crushing boulder of an idea uphill through one’s mind? (need to get ahold of the girls) She stared blankly at the computer screen (focus) as the strains of a gothic organ washed over her. The notes of Toccata and Fugue in D Minor soared and tumbled as she absentmindedly twined the end of her copper braid (need to get a trim) through her fingers (really like the color why can’t I focus).

Madness, she could embrace. There had been plenty of times through her life when she felt like a prisoner (why can’t I FOCUS this is just a short topic) in her own mind, had stepped back as an observer and marveled with clinical fascination (I wonder what the weather gotta call my mom guilt) the destructive patterns that repeated within her. There was only white noise and static at the moment—nothing of use for her to write about. Her fingers jittered in arrhythmic time to the uncontrolled chaos (need to thank why can’t I ever-FOCUS-get organized) in her head.

The most maddening part was that when the static cleared and she caught clear glimpses of the words in her head (How can I do NaNoWriMo when), when she was granted enough pause to see the shape of an idea, lurking just beneath the surface, she knew (broke his promise again not even surprised anymore) she was sitting on something…remarkable. That just made the guilt worse because she told herself (just FOCUS GODDAMMIT), had told herself for years she was just (really want brownies should I bake how much will a plane ticket home be) lazy and lacked mental discipline and focus, that she was (or maybe muffins where is he) simply complacent (really feel like I’m losing it lately) with her undeveloped, wasted potential.

Right, then. So time to force it. Even if (first appointment with the doctor Tuesday) it came in bits and pieces (kind of nervous wonder what) and wasn’t up to her demanding standards, even if there was no inspiration (Adderall Ritalin Am I lazy I’m just lazy) behind it, even if she posted it five minutes (huh, 12:52 should eat lunch where IS he) before the topic deadline, she refused to give up simply because (I tried to discover a little something to make me sweeter) she couldn’t focus (oh baby, refrain, from breaking my heart) and the white noise in her head was growing so much worse the past few (oh god I hope Dr. McAllen can) months. Just time to get SOMETHING (Erasure? Seriously?) down on the page and post it and (wonder how he’ll diagnose think I’m off the charts) and if her lack of coherence (I’m so in love with you I’ll be forever blue oh goddammit) cost her in the long run, well then, she could at least say that (maybe he’s never coming back) she didn’t let her demons keep her from writing…again (so tired of fighting myself).