And every time they screamed, it sounded like machines to me.
2.07.2014 @ 03:12
She arrived home to a mostly
empty house, save for her mother who was sleeping on the couch. After spending
about two minutes trying to tip-toe to her room in the most soundless and
elegant way someone as gawky as her could manage, she locked the door behind
her and turned on her ancient computer. She waited approximately ten minutes before
that damned piece of prehistoric contraption actually whirred to life, and
another five for a Word Document to pop out. She was determined to make the
best blog post she’s ever written.
The plan she had imagined in her
head, however, didn’t go quite as smoothly as she’d hoped – firstly, it was
eleven and work had been exhaustingly horrible (making smoothies had its
pressures, too), secondly, all she’d written was:
I came home after work to a mostly
empty houeofnl kmo.’=[pppppppppppp9{‘;ppppppppppppg
She looked at it with mild
disappointment – but mostly just amusement and knowingness, though. She didn’t
know if some part of her had actually hoped for her half-asleep self to produce
something worthy of reading, but still, she was forced to come to terms with
the fact that her unconscious state of mind was just as useless as her sober
state. So she sat at her desk a little while more, cladded in work attire and
all, and stared at the screen until the words were just mere blots of black on
a white – otherwise perfect – piece of parchment. Every now and then, she would
think of a sentence to write but she backspaced them all; they sucked anyway. The
drumming of her fingers against the keyboard was not at all musical nor could
it create something as great as the old, dusty cello her mother had kept in the
storeroom. She had convinced herself that night-time wasn’t her time – even
though she was probably going to spend the night away shopping online. Unseeingly,
she reached for her phone and stood up. Tomorrow, she’ll write the best
goddamnned thing Blogger will ever have.
Tomorrow.
Labels: Writings
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