We all do it

He sits quietly. The music that was playing has stopped. The playlist is finished. Things are quiet but not silent. There is the humming and quiet clicking from the computer to fill the void the music left. Also some birds outside the window chirp a little now and again. The curtains are drawn as usual. He had opened them earlier to get some light and life into the apartment while cleaning but then he had to use the projector. He sits with his arms crossed looking with empty eyes at the monitor in front of him. It shows a cat by a toilet and a funny speech bubble about not leaving cause the chihuahua could get out. He read it several minutes ago and doesn't see it any longer he just looks straight ahead and listens to the silence, contemplating. No good will come out of it, he thinks but he still plays it out in his head. Starts forming the idea. Damn it it's lame but he can't let it go. It's like an itch he has to scratch. He leans forward and starts. It's really bad and he thinks he shouldn't but he still gets a little kick out of it. It's even more cliché than he first realized. He continues for a little while but then the itch seems scratched. It's rarely pretty but we can't help it. Writing ourselves into the story. Writing about writing the story and then don't even have the guts not to write it in English. Pretentious and vulgar. He lost the will to keep on going. It is finished. It has done what he needed, come full circle. Is it any good? He's not the one to say but he laughs to himself and thinks, probably not.

//Anders Öhlund 2010-06-01