Selfish

Yellow signs tell me to stop, or slow down, and let passersby pass by, but my foot is feeling heavy and I want to be first for a change. I always let people go ahead of me.
Hold the door.
Wait in line.
“Sorry, no, go ahead. I’m not in any hurry.”

Its my turn to be aggressive. I’m going to take what I want.
Breakneck speed on ice. I’ve never learned to skate so this could hurt.

If I don’t look out for me then who will? If I don’t set it all up to be my tower nobody is going to build it for me. All the worlds a stage and it’s my turn to speak, even if it is just a soliloquy.
Shakespeare might have had the words but those men never looked as good in a dress as I do. Lets dance through the stanza’s and weave words of dissonance. Contrast and compare. Opposites don’t always attract.

I’m not sure where I’m going with this but the word dump can be fun sometimes.

It’s all spent on me today. The pounds of flesh and pennies on the floor.
Bank accounts empty and I’ve got a lot of nothing to show for it, but its my nothing. I picked it out and set it up.
It’s my nothing and that means everything.

Dump

She sat there staring at her screen with her fingers placed eagerly on the keys. She wanted them to move. She begged them to move but they sat there frozen. Or not frozen but undecided, as if they had so many words all swirling around inside of her head that they couldn’t decide on which ones were allowed out first. So there she sat in a frustrated state and on the border of tears.
It wasn’t always like this, the stunted words and blank thoughts. She use to have the words flow through her like water. They would rush from her fingers and sound as a river roaring off of a mountain at the spring thaw. She used to be able to write abstract thoughts and make them coherent, at least to herself, and hold a feeling in her heart and have it melt onto the screen with ease. Now? Not so much.
The winter continues on and the thaw has held for a long time now. She wonders if its her and if she’ll ever be able to write again. Is this the way it is now?
She shakes her head, blinking back the tears.
No, of course this can’t be it. She feels it deep inside of her. She was the one who wrote those words before, the ones that she fell in love with. Those words that made her think perhaps she may have a future in this magnificently beautiful yet terrifyingly difficult world. It may be hard and she may fail but she wasn’t made out for the regular grind. She would whither and die.
After a moment she found herself staring out of the window, once again distracting herself from what she wanted to do. Did she want to do this? She thought so.
It had been her dream for a long time but she could never fully engage in it. She had spent more time daydreaming about it and fantasizing of all of the magical things she would be able to write. If only there was a way she could force herself into it.
She often thought of hiring someone to chain her to a desk and provide her with a computer without access to the internet. A prison of sorts that would require her to do nothing else than write. It would probably work, the extremes were always more kind to her than not. It was part of the reason she was attracted to the type of men she was. Fantasy always ruled reality in her world.
There’s a nervousness in her fingers as she types. She’s unsure what it’s really about but it feels like she doesn’t trust herself. It’s like she’s not sure what she’s doing so the only thing is to keep going. Push through it all.

“Just close your eyes and keep going,” she mutters to herself.

A long sigh and a scroll of her eyes back up the page. This is probably more than she’s written in months. If it isn’t then its close to it, which makes her both sad and happy. Sadness always comes first, it’s the way her life seems to go but if you’re going to be happy at any part of it finishing is the best way to do it.
There is no rhyme or reason to this, she thought. Nothing about what she had just written was ever going to be published or repurposed for something greater, but she hopes it helped. If anything enough to push the words out of her mind and organize whatever is left. Maybe this is something she can do every day as a precursor to some actual writing she loves.

Maybe.