I’m pretty sure that every day is the worst day of my life. Any day could be selected from the indistinguishable mass of retreated time, and no matter which one emerged, it would still be the worst day of my life. The reasons for this aren’t exactly clear to me – it seems as if I’m on one side of a dirty window, and have completely forgotten whatever was on the other side. One thing I do know is that I’m desperately trying to catch a glimpse at those opposite, those to whom everything comes easy, flitting from task to task, completing everything with such facile grace, that they should be dipped in Lucite and placed upon an enormous pedestal, serving only to remind of the things I can never be. Saturday was the worst day of my life.
On this particular Saturday afternoon, I was sitting at my laptop, which is not uncommon. Being my closest and dearest companion, whether inanimate or not, I am never far from it. It even had a name. But despite this attachment, it was at that time my tormentor, like a friend with a concealed blade, continuously asking if it can help you put on a coat. I was trying to write. I blinked, and the cursor blinked back. An entire white page sat in front of me, presenting possibilities limited only by the furthest reaches of my imagination. A beckoning blank canvas, upon which so many geniuses and luminaries have created works of such shining beauty, that they will stand forever as a testament to the wonder of the human soul. The thought depressed me. All I can think of is how I’m almost sure that the blinking cursor is laughing at me. Now, I could be mistaken, but I’m almost positive that writers are supposed to write, as it seems to be a fairly important part of the whole deal. They can write about anything, from plants to Tupperware, and, as long as they engage in the basic process of placing one word after the other, they have accomplished what I cannot. They are writers. Then, they can sit back, be pleased that they have undertaken in the one task they use to define themselves, and sleep well at night, content that they possess the slightest semblance of worth. But, it just won’t come to me, and I’m forever pining after a long sold-out commodity. A certain splinter had driven itself into my brain, embedded past the point of placation, and I couldn’t escape from venturing amongst thoughts I’d rather avoid, and the chief of these, is self-deception – Classically, a dangerous activity to engage in, much like digging near power lines, or playing ‘Who can drink the most bleach’. The act itself isn’t initially that harmful; for example, go right ahead and believe that a girl walked out on your date, because she insisted that she was late for a brain operation – that’s fine. You can lie to yourself about some matters, the small and trivial, whose bearing is of no great importance in the overall scheme of existence. However, some things should remain forever as truth, and be acknowledged as such. These are usually the things we don’t want to see. So, we continue on, until one final moment in time, when you are greeted with a single blinding moment of comprehension, burning so brightly that you can’t bear to look at it, and you realize that everything you thought you were, and would ever be, is all a gigantic lie. Now, that hurts. Especially given when you consider the unpleasant fact that you have inflicted it upon yourself, with subtle lies and falsehoods accumulating, tucking reality safely away into a neat corner with blinking safety cones surrounding it, standing as a warning to all those who come near. The fear grabbed tightly in my chest, and icy shivers of muted terror shot up my back, as I contemplated my oldest and darkest fear; that I can’t write, and that I should not have placed the majority of my self-worth into an activity that I cannot do. Mounting feelings of panic soon amassed, and I felt the beads of sweat form upon my rutted brow, threatening to fall upon my smirking laptop in drops of anguished rain. And through all of this, the cursor continued to blink.
I soon gave up. I’d never been masochistic enough to persist with something that made me miserable, despite what some of my previous relationships would suggest. I did know that I needed something to distract me, and since it was a Saturday, I hoped that salvation would arrive in the form of a trip to an inner city bar, and copious amounts of alcohol. It did arrive. But it wasn’t salvation.