The Write Way to Die

The cursor winks at me, teasing.
Mocking.
I try to move him, and fail. Again.
My pupils plead in my palms, streaks of strain screaming in the blankness. The warmth of my hands are either too little or too much, and sleep calls again as my eyes remain glued for a second too long. Struggling to tear them open, I whip my head around, trying to shake off exhaustion.
Trying to scratch the film from my third eye.
Nails of frustration dig deep, scratching at dry-eyed wells of imagination, searching for a drop of inspiration.
Maybe coffee will help.
Irises, seared and exhausted, can barely make out shadows in the blackness.
In the blankness.
My hands are even worse, fumbling around dead vapes, empty glasses, and crumpled papers.
Where the fu-
Ah, there it is.
The first wave of sweet bitterness washes over me like cold slime, and frustration threatens to drown me in tandem with revulsion.
The coffee is shit
My writing is shit
I will always be shit
The mantra rings in the empty space between my ears as I sway to the familiar beat.
I should get a pair of those little buddhist cymbals, light some incense
You know, really get into the spirit of things

The coffee is shit

My writing is really shit

I’ll always be shit

Ommmmmmm

What are those little cymbals called?
Against my better judgment, I fumble for my mouse, knocking aside crumpled outlines. A new window blocks the flashing cursor, but I can still feel him, hear him teasing.
Mocking.

Fuckin’ bitch

The new cursor, the sweet, seductive search bar cursor, embraces me.
Shhhh, she whispers, lashes fluttering softly.
What did you want to search, love? I’ll do anything.
BBC?
Busty Asians?
Budget Crisis?
Buddhist Monk Cymbals?
Oh love, that’s so boring. Don’t you want me?
I look over my monitor, but my eyes betray me still.
Is the door deadbolted?
My creativity finally stirs while my boxer briefs tighten.
Imagination threatens to eject itself into reality.
The creeeaking of floorboards stops my heart
ALT+TAB
The cursor’s winks in greeting
My pen throbs in response.
Warm light spills onto my face
While I struggle to restrain inspiration
A voice threatens the fragile equilibrium.
“How’s it coming baby?”
Tenderness fills the air, and the soft slap of house slippers glide toward me. I try to look diligent but the cursor still winks in the void. I can feel their bodyheat press against mine while soft hands carress my head, pulling me out of oblivion.
“How’s my author coming alo-”
The page is seen
I am seen
Solved
Forsaken
And cast out

“Wait
BABE WAIT
IT WASN’T-
I DIDN’T EVEN-”

FWUMP
The door is uninterested in what I have to say.
I sink into my chair, unable to fight against the weight of my failure, my frustration, and this blank fucking page.
The cursor winks at me in perfect rhythm, teasing.
Mocking.