Sellophane

I end up watching films the most when I shouldn't be. For instance, I have seen Terminator: Rise of the Machines, Terminator Salvation, Ninja Assasin, Wolfman, From Paris with Love, Quantam of Solace, Kiss Kiss Bang Bang and Leon in the last three days. That's almost three movies a day, and in two weeks I am supposed to be handing in two essays 5000 words each. And how many words have I written: 300. So I still have 9700. 97% of my work left. Fun life isn't it.

You realize one day, that you can't write anymore. Of course, you can write. Your fingers will still pitter patter over the obedient keyboard. Letters in a pre selected font will still form themselves on the cold screen in front of you. But you can't write.

Words no longer bubble up from the depths of your mind. Thoughts no longer form sentences. Everything that you write is weirdly symmetrical and somehow dead.

You realize that you have lost your muse. You have lost the ability to write, because when you wrote you performed for an audience. A very specific audience, and now that those canine fangs no longer flash. You can't write because you don't want to.

The words are dead. As is the heart. Symmetry and Order tries to take over your beautiful world of spontaneous combustion.

Teeter Totter. Wag-an-Otter.

When you know what you want is just there? Right there. Over there, behind that door. Like the last level of a particularly complicated PC Game. When you know the sword of light that will kill the orcs and free the elves is right there to be swished around, that is when the pause button seems the nicest and the shiniest. But life doesn't work that way. It just doesn't. I am waiting, waiting for someone to find the pause button. Till then I can either stay in one place, go back or maybe open the door.
Ugh! This sucks...

What are words when the moonlight sonata fills your mind with sheer bliss. What are thoughts when they seem to crumble away to make room for this immense force. As each notes rips through my body, fire grips my veins and love blinds me.

The Moonlight Sonata flows through me, and I give myself to it. If there is a god, this is it.

Curl it around your tiny finger. Like a finger shoved impertinently through a smoke ring. Type slowly chewing each syllable, playing around with it in your mouth. One goes pop, the other a blatant blip. Slow motion dreams, huge chunks of them. We will swim through them and bleed a drop or two as our own personal version of a cheap romance.

But what did the joker say to thief?

Why is it even important? Maybe he talked about his own life, as he saw it. Painted in the colorless hues of incandescent confusion. His bloodshot eyes in perfect harmony with the laughter inducing musical nose. His plastic smile, the only fixed centre in a life that crumbled away life monumental ant hills in the rain.

Maybe he talked about his Bess? Bess, the landlords black-eyed, black-haired daughter. Blip Drip. Blood Dlood. Dead on the Bed. Boom Boom. Bang Bang. Now gone. Shattered like a monumental anthill in the rain.

No reason to get excited.
Life is but a joke.
Curl it around your tiny finger.