I have nothing to write. Yet I want to write it so very badly. Now. I set aside this time before my eyelids sunk with the exhaustion of lengthening hours and meaty lists of tasks to check for my own leisurely unfurling. And yet.
I draw a blank.
That is an interesting phrase to me--it is impossible to draw blankness. In the way an artist might draw a picture, I mean. And I suppose that's the ironic purpose to it all. When you are drawing nothing you aren't really drawing. You are sitting at a desk, tapping your eraser against the hard wood and shaking your leg in frustration before a page pleading for the contribution of your creative tatooing, still unmarked. You are poised with your fingers over a keyboard, an unlimited combination of letters and spaces and punctuation at your disposal--and yet they can't be compelled to force down a single symbol.
Thoughts wink at me seductively, starry and inconsistent enough. I can't see them long enough to put them down on paper before the light goes out again. On again, off again.
Flash!
I buy too much music.
Light!
We create Zion.
Asterisk!
If you add ghetto slang to juvenile sentences it makes you sound older?
Zap!
I have a goal to say only good things about people that is hard sometimes.
Thought!
I am Homework Kid--it says so on my cape.
Notion!
Sam Beam is a beautiful man.
Something!
Maggot face.
N o t h i n g .
