Two days have gone by since I made a promise to write a book, about a guy who I have no idea who he is. I suppose finding a way out of here and finding my way home from this little adventure, has taken a backseat to survival. I’ve dug myself into a hole, I had no idea I was even in to begin with.
For the last two mornings I’ve awakened sober, and stared at the ceiling. It’s white. Not the normal cream colored white or off white. It’s more of the kind of bright white you see in padded rooms in movies. That annoyingly bright white, that makes you wonder if the room smells of bleach and Jesus.
Sitting on the edge of my bed I ponder if I need or want a drink. And would said drink actually help me or hinder me. With my eyes closed, I let my other senses engage with my imagination as I reach for a pack of cancer sticks. I light one up, take a long drag and exhale. Physically I’m still in my room on the edge of my bed.
But mentally, I’m outside sitting on the edge of a building. Not sure how high up, nor do I care. I never bother to open my eyes and look. All I know is I can feel everything, and I’m apart of everything. I can feel the breeze tickle my skin. I can taste the air, even if that makes any sense at all.
The wind is playfully light, and in the distance I can hear the grass sway. The sun beams down kissing my skin, luring my lips into a welcoming smile. I feel nothing but air under my legs as the swing off the edge of the building. The wind blows the ash from my cigarette, a bit of it drifts along my face before being blown to where ever its path of destiny leads it.
And without thought I rock back and forth. Then I just let go, in my mind I can feel myself fall. I fall and fall, until I hit the ground. Opening my eyes, I’m standing up in my room-haunted by white glittery painted walls. Flicking ash into cap of a half drunken Snapple, I make my way to the bathroom.
After thirty minutes of procrastination, I exhale and sit at my computer. Grabbing the mouse, while popping my flash drive in the tower. A few moments pass and I’m facing every writer’s nemesis-a blank screen.
Craning my neck and listening to the small pops, I begin to think ‘what can I write’. And here is the biggest battle of all, sitting at this computer hoping to finally type something that makes sense. Hoping music will help me I search for something to get me started. I settle on “Circle Sky” by The Monkees. It blasts and causes me to bop my head.
I begin to tap the keys, random words and phrases. Something in which I hopefully I can put together later once I get in a groove. But my impatience with my talent and ideas begin to overwhelm me. Time flows by like a river, and five minutes of sitting and having a staring contest with the page, soon turns into two hours. Not able to beat the tag team champions ‘writers block’ and ‘half empty page’, I ground another cancer stick in the Snapple cap. Exhaling deeply, I type out one word. And the only word I can get out is…..
Typed in bold Italics and gothic font. The cursor on the screen blinking taunts me, as if it’s laughing at me. And with that, I roll my eyes and crawl back in the bed wishing I really had leapt off a roof to uncertain doom.
But before sleep finds me and envelops me, my phone rings. I answer, and to my surprise it’s Rin. We speak briefly, he gives me instructions. A few seconds later he hangs up, and from there I rush to shit, shower and put clothes on and head to the elevator. By the sound of his voice, I had no idea if I should be worried or not.
to be continued