There is always a story. For a writer, and thereby meaning anyone who has a running inner monologue circling their Grey-matter, there is always a story. Maybe even two or three. Sometimes there are so many stories bidding for attention that the mere though of writing any one of them becomes a terrifying task.
Which is where I have been for the last year or so. Could be more. It’s hard to tell when
One is out there having fun in the warm California sun. However the real issue is the golden idol sized case of writer’s block.
Though even as I type that statement, I’m in full knowledge of how stupid an excuse it sounds. Writer’s block is what my friend calls “White Problems”. No one cares if you can’t place words on a page. No one but your overactive super-ego.
The small tiny voice that drones on and on, like an over-protective mother. Yet procrastination comes on strong like a good drug. Dopamine flooding into the context of the cortex.
Television, the New Age Nanny, becomes visual junk food where everyone is a clown or king with big pearly whites, all the better to eat your soul with, my drear.
Though one comes back to the place where it all started. A chair, computer, desk, and an Oxford comma for good measure. Speakers turned up to 11. Elton John belting out homogenized tunes through a lisp.
Outside the world falls apart bit by bit. Predicted and prescribed entropy for a rapidly decaying society on the cliffs of time.
You want meaning, You won’t find meaning here. We’re all tapped out and the bunghole is dry. Inebriation gives way to realization. It’s better to have the bottle in front of me than to have a frontal inspection at the airport.
There is no depth, no substance. We are all only skin and knee deep in a river of shit. Tempering our resolve. There are two ways out of Shaw-shank, five hundred feet of feces or the body bag.
The choice is yours to make and suffer the consequences. The decision becomes, at least in part, the story.