Trapped with One Way Out

A word whirlwind overcomes me, there it is the little writer boy, a little man with a little wig and a little mouse in his throat, trying to come up with the next big idea, the next character with as much passion and emotion, as much love as any other.

You have forgotten me then, the previous novel said in a state of ecstatic aversion, I am no longer useful to you.

You are not, but you will, as a remembrance of what I used to have and how much talent I squandered away, the little boy, who was me, said.

He, that is, me, then laughed for he was so inept and sturdy, but deep down also very vulnerable, timid, and nearly decrepit with fear. There was little he could do for he did not have the talent, creativity or drive to do anything anymore but stumble blindly upon meaningless words with bland descriptions, occurrences with no reason, thoughts with no rhyme, a cadence ever flowing towards nothing, nothing! It made no sense in the slightest and it wasn’t exciting, it wasn’t funny, it wasn’t interesting, and he didn’t know why he couldn’t do it!

I’m insignificant in the grand scheme of the universe, just a man who imagines other things for the pleasure of others, he said while typing away with his one good hand, but these images have little purpose but give a sense of extraordinary calmness to a restless mind, if something like what I have written hadn’t been written, what would be different, except myself? And I if I write more of the same, where would I be and with which intent?, I thought all of that, instead of writing it and when I thought of writing it, it was gone already so it couldn’t be used, and when I tried to make use of it, I barely remembered the best parts.

I’m useless and ugly, I said and threw my project into the trash where it belonged and then I put myself in it, to join its mortal remains, slowly covering my sweaty body with the torn manuscript trying to pamper myself with a little treat, a little massage of the senses.

The words should have come, but they didn’t. I should have been alive, but I wasn’t. I should have known what to write easily, but I couldn’t, etcetera, etcetera, and when I had a word, the next one did not follow, instead it strangled itself in my throat and made me cry for I had written a story that was garbage, but very popular, and I was feeling like garbage, and was not very popular, which was, of course, very funny.

I should do it, I should write, and then just be done with it, just completely fuck myself up, I said and I did it well, then bad, and then well, and when I was done, I shook myself all over trying to make sense of how I had written something so odious, obnoxious, abhorrent, smelly, repugnant, putrid, worthless, and still, I was feeling so elated and happy, that I had written at last, and wouldn’t have to, for at least, another miserable hour.