The Cursor Blinks....

How easy you think it is to write? If love birds and grey beards only knew. The anxiety and struggle behind each word of true poetry,- and the boredom and insincerity behind the false ones.Hours are spent simply trying to find something to write about. Before double cheese burgers and sphygmomanometers (And to think, I believed the word would never come in handy…), writers preferred to create masterpieces on virgin, unexplored topics,- extraordinary to the novice readers’ minds.
But ever since electronic mail,they’ve moved on to writing books of comic humour; something I tried,- but failed at worse than math; science fiction- the ones with the little green men (like my sis, but really a lighter shade) on; and not to forget romance novels,- the ones with the beautiful, curvy women on the front, with their cleavage showing . All of which I attempted but crashed at. And as you may have guessed already, My incompetence at all of the above things, makes it even harder for me to find a topic worthy of being written about, than for the average author. But I write. Because I need to write. Because I have to write. Because it is in my blood, flowing in my veins, pulsing with the rhythmic beat of every heart beat. Lubb. Dup.
But that doesn’t change the fact that the blinking cursor at the end of this sentence almost puts me in a trance. I don't have the psyche to etch real, pure, unadulterated fiction. Not yet at least. So what else can I write about?
I am sure that you have your own personal philosophy stashed away somewhere in a dark corner of that web-entombed and seldom used brain, to majestically and dreamily narrate to a bored companion in some empty moment.
And I don’t believe that you would really care to know mine.For you are too engaged in living your life to make observations about people, places and the stories behind each of them. To contemplate them in trains and buses, on the way to work; or while picking out the dog hairs that have strayed into your bowl of Kellogg’s; or while watching rain pellet onto the pavement and wonder how many ants have just lost their homes and families.Because you have a life. So much to do, and so little time to do it in. Places to go, with people to meet, and purposes to fulfill. The cursor blinks.Life is fast. Speedy. Maybe even rapid. But always random.
When you were lonely, solace and comfort were a phone call away. It still is. Of course the numbers change.But do they?When you felt a dry throat and a pit in your stomach, you had probably just skipped a meal. What would you know what it is like to be so wrought with emotion that you sit transfixed, blinking into the little dust flakes that conjure out of nothingness in front of your eyes, watching a tiny vertical black line appear, and then disappear just as quickly, taunting you, challenging you to win a game that never started in the first place,- when you look but don't see, and your throat feels stretched like the cord used to hang the wash and tastes sour somewhere deep down?
Did I just lose you in that sentence? I am happiest in my life when I sit still on a cold dark floor, against a colder, darker wall, savouring the smell of the rain as it mixes with overbearing mother earth, inhaling the aroma of fresh coffee, as I hold the cup in both hands and drain out its warmth into my unbecomingly manly palms, to watch a dog run,- run like there's no tomorrow and then collapse panting.I live in small moments. You celebrate - whenever you can. You are the other half of me. You strive with weariness and never seem to cherish the fruit. I seek nothing and I find bliss. You don't know it yet - but in moments when your mind wanders like mine, you and I find each other. And then, you find the bliss you've always seeked.