Knights On Wooden Horses

Past midnight on a Tuesday morning (does that make sense?) and you know you really should sleep. There's a somewhat longish drive ahead of you in the morning and you need it. David Lodge is nestled on your left and you wish you could write half as good as he does (or Gaiman, or King, or Moore) but you know you're not quite there yet. It's still bloody hot and you've got that itch in your throat that threatens to be strep or something like that and you know you're screwed and just waiting for it to come. Like death, only death doesn't really screw you. People screw you.

So it's up early tomorrow and for the trip back. Back to family, and the little town you grew to love but feel so distant from these days. Back through the little road into town you'd always envisioned bringing that person with but reconciled with bringing your little black box (because video games don't kill people, people kill people and you don't have a person to bring back and you don't WANT one). Do people feel sorry for you? you wonder, sometimes aloud but mostly when the fan makes noise and you're in that little space in between waking and sleeping, when walls are thinnest and you finally feel you're ready to let go, in that blissful moment when you realise you're actually falling asleep. A part of you answers that yeah maybe sometimes they do.

But more importantly, do YOU pity you? Usually you chuckle at this point because it sounds smart when in fact all it is is a load of poo (I won't say crap let's all say poo because roses smell like poo, Outkast said so) and no matter what you do right now you're royally buggered because it's all a sham trying to be everything to everyone (like Everclear said). And so you spend some nights writing brill stuff (well to you anyway) and others like this one writing punctuation free prose that would make anyone gasp for breath just reading it, as if you're trying to rewrite your whole life all over again and you're racing with the devil only he's got a bigger faster pen.

And you think if you can write fast enough, and good enough your life WILL change and everything WILL work out and you'll finally be able to write in a happy ending. But dawn comes and you wake up into the same old cycle and you realise you actually like it that way. So the script doesn't really get finished because you get weird scenes that can't really be shot and an ending that would make Plath kill herself with a garrote after swallowing arsenic (if you knew Sofia Coppola or maybe slept with her you think she'd want to make a movie out of this, a really sad one).

And THAT makes you laugh, sometimes.
What a way to close a night.