Tuesday, September 27, 2011

Already Dead

Consciousness - I feel it drifting away, piece by piece. It is a shattered window, worn down by time and elements, being removed by overwhelming outside forces. I start to dream, still half awake. Scenes begin to play out in bits in my mind, apropos of nothing, as an interlude to the reality that surrounds me.

The clocks turn over to twelve noon. It’s going to be another lousy day at work.

Staring down the line, I make the necessary preparations. The seconds seem to drag. I check again. People look anxious and uncomfortable assembled into a makeshift lineup. The pressure of their desire to leave and the intensity of their stares attempts to pierce my indifference, but very little can penetrate the walls I’ve built. I’ve been doing this for too long. I’ll be doing it just a little bit longer.

The people here are not my friends. They’re mercenaries, traders and thieves. Every one of them is in it for themselves, and deception is just another tool at their disposal. I won’t play their games, and for that, I stay trapped. I am still exactly where I started. I’m afraid I’ll die here. I’m afraid that the walls I’ve built form my coffin.

Buried under the weight of my thoughts, I indulge them. I press the button. A number flashes, and an autonomous voice emanating from above announces me to my audience. I sleep. I imagine that I am a free man. I cross oceans and cure diseases. The city and the stars are my home. I pursue science and the arts with equal fervidity. The details change, but my freedom remains a constant. I may never be free. This realization always gives me pause.

I have to keep moving. I have to keep trying. The very moment that I stop going forward is the moment that I am dead.

Monday, September 26, 2011

Life on Mars Part 2: The lies we tell ourselves

Writer’s block.

I’ve never really understood it before. I’ve been able to create magic with my fingers for so long; I just never thought it would end. Here I am though, looking at a typepad, with not one goddamn thing to type. I’m getting drunker quicker, but it isn’t helping. I’m not inspired. I don’t have that one thing that really intrigues people. I have no idea what to write about. It’s been my nightmare since I started this ridiculous farce.

I watch the band play, with the sort of analytic tick that would ruin anything. I over think each movement. I kept expecting things that never happened. It was no different with the chatter from the customers that I overheard. No one had anything more interesting to say than a cricket’s chirp. It was a conversation I could hear on any regular night from any number of people. Had I lost it? Was my gift to be torn away from me abruptly? No. The doubt is what will get me. I need to be confident. I need to know that I’ll turn this out.

But I don’t know.