I was going to put more than that in this post, but honestly, I really only started this to put that thought down. I didn't write the thought down in March, I just changed it because that's what I'm making this post about. This is pretty much what I imagine when I write.
March 3rd, 2010.
It repeated. The desert he was in was flat. It just kept repeating. His life. An endless repetition. He used the same words over and over. He thought the same words over and over. He thought that his life was repeating, but thats all he ever thought, and therefore fulfilled his own self prophecy. He would think, my life is just the same thing over and over. Then he would think it again. And again, and again, and again. His life was a repetition in the practice of repetion. Was it choice? It seemed like he could not get out of the loop.
He drank from his glass and set it back down. He didn't pay any attention to it. He worked for hours. Typing. Typing. Words coming from his fingertips and transforming into pixels on the page. Backspace, he made a mistake. He clicked in the wrong place, starting typing between a word...didn't realize it for a little but then he noticed. He was typing in the middle of nowhere, right in the middle of the h. He took another drink.
The fact that his fingers never grew tired didn't bother him. Why would it bother anybody. He would probably be bothered to know that all text that was not on his screen disappeared forever, but the size of the text file always fooled him. It grew gradually, the more he typed, whether or not the words were visible or not, he took for granted that the computer could memorize words beyond the monitor, which made enough sense in the real world, if he was in it. He took another drink. Tack tack tack tack...ti-tack. The sound of the keyboard with his, at best, chaotic typing.
The font slowly turned into scrawl, but ever so slowly he did not see it occur. It became very similar to his handwriting which was illegible to even him on occasion. The print began to slur its words together as if trying to create a neon sign with the letters, in case he ever wanted to make a full size model to place in front of his home in the desert.
Home? He didn't have a home in the desert. It was the desert. What an absurd thought.
He took another drink.
His fingers began to trace in the sand, mimicking his handwriting. He wrote now in large letters, as the sand would allow no smaller without collapsing upon itself. His finger moved along the sand. It was hot, but he never stopped. His fingers formed the letters he was thinking of that may or may not have formed into entire words that may or may not have began to create a story that someone may or may not be interested in reading. His eyes furrowed, thinking these exact thoughts as he continued moving along the sand. He shuffled like a crab underneath his story, stopping only to take a drink of his water. The glass was always right above his work.
He didn't stop. Oh no, he couldn't stop. Men came and went, women came and went, animals and plants and storms and snows and tornadoes and earthquakes and emotions and suns and moons and stars and tears and blood and old age and childhood and fingernails and colors and stones and cores and papers and pens and offices and depression and thoughts and wrinkles and pina coladas and buckets of water and roads and airplanes and presidents and troubles and robots and cars and pencils and pillows and calculators and languages and magic and pots and pans and drills and gold and space and hands and feet and faces and marks and crushes and let-downs and fathers and mothers and cups and peanut butter and socks and towers and lies and infidelity and keys and hearts and discs and sports and nature and time and...............
He took a drink of his water.
No, never stopped. He couldn't stop. What a life he had to live. It might not even be his choice, the inability to stop writing came over him so strongly like an unquenchable thirst, but that he didn't have to worry about. He looked back on his line that traveled across multiple worlds and shrugged. He looked up and saw hands grabbing for him. They were always there. Waiting. He stood. He took a drink of his water.
March 11th, 2010
The hands certainly took their time. He stood with a slightly confused look upon his face peering up at the wrinkle-layered skin that slowly grew larger and larger in his vision. Carelessness lead him here. The gods must be reading his story from across the world and across universes. Obviously his story had interested someone. He only took a drink from his water, and stared upwards.
Boy, they certainly took their time.
He could feel their grip upon him, He did not resist. He was grabbed underneath, his arms free. The hands were so dirty and dry. Liquid could keep a pretty good hold on these hands. He dipped his finger into his glass of water and began to trace letters on the hands. He left wet marks upon them that continued his story, and they did not resist. His eyes looked nowhere else. He could not see what was above him or below him.
The hand was at least gentle with him, carrying him. He had no notice of it moments after it had picked him up, for his passion for his story was too great and it consumed his being. He took a drink, but hastily tore the glass away from his face realizing it was all he had for makeshift ink around.
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