This deviation of expectation stirs the subconscious, then the conscious, then the curiosity, and my attention is finally drawn away from the blank digital canvas to my body.Īnd here I still sit, only now sitting with me, clutching my wrist tightly, is something pulsing with its own life, its own urgency. A year of this mess could do it to anyone – especially me, who pretends that it wasn’t having an effect while succumbing to its glorious banality.ĭeep from the recesses of my former life my hand habitually grasps at my wrist, fingers tracing the curve of a bezel that is familiar, yet new in this moment. Ridding myself of superfluous or intentional thought is a virtue I have perverted into vice, unflinching in its own persistence.
That stillness begets not meditation but distraction, disillusion, an impulse to run and do anything, everything, something that makes the soul dance and create even the slightest forward motion.īlinking, breathing, blank as fresh snow, acutely aware of the seconds creeping past that silently take note of their own frantic pace as I sit painfully focused on my lack thereof. My bones creak as I shift in my mind and seat, mental exercises to spark the flame of inspiration anew. Thick and slow they are nudged by my effort but resist coercion and instead, dispersion and chaos are what they find in air drenching my bubble of self that seeks anything but continued stasis. Or is that pounding in my chest? Words and ideas turn to mist as I struggle to wrangle a cohesive thought from the jumble spilling over my lips, invisible but dripping like syrup in a cold pantry in the dead of winter.
Here I sit, unfocused and gazing past the empty pixels as the rhythmic synth pulses like the heartbeat of a frantic hare.
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