Another Work-in-progress

Untitled

Last night I realized I'll never be satisfied. Not because I'll never be good enough, or smart enough, or quick enough, but because I'll never believe it. It's written inon my psyche. Because I'm not going to get to the place where I'm safe and secure. Or I might. But I won't stay. The habit's been formed, and it is not going to break.

I thought the word before the form of it spilled out in ink. And they thought it before then. And before that they desired it. No, it desired them. It's coming out in prose now, filling the line, except the left margin, which insistently I abide by. It makes my handwriting look neat and valid. A sign of the Law. Of wasted paper. My hand writes and my head thinks. Strange duets. Thinks and things.

The purse on the counter cast a shadow I couldn't quite comprehend. The pen, at the point I write, casts no shadow. Except for on itself; which makes it shade. And I blindly write. The ball point covering the point of paper I fill. The ink bleeds. My forearm cramps. Fingertips throb. A series of points in curved lines: An oxymoron. I learned how to punctuate, but sometimes the words come too fast in groups of ten eleven twelve, and I make them three four five to compensate.

The page is almost full now and my boss on his way home. The blue ink with which I write doesn't make me recall any emotion at all but rather wonderings of if the store happened to be out of black that day. The day I went. The day before I sat down to write.