The Onslaught (of a whole lot of nothing)

I sat at the computer, the clickety clackety taps and tunks firing away, while Myra the cat manged and mowed and macked and mrrred. Words appeared and disappeared before my eyes while churning thoughts burned new passageways in my thinking. What am I writing? said one of the voices within. Doesn’t seem like it makes any sense, scorned a very similar but more bitter voice. The more I wrote and purged from the pregnant banks the more was erased, replaced and cycled through synonymously into a gibberish of lettering, in which the spacing between the words made more sense than the surrounding sentences. Myra’s own sophisticated vocabulary faded into the shadows of the background noise gardens where the trickling of the fish tank and whirring of fans blanketed silence herself.

I had too many ideas all the sudden. I arrived at moment in the vacuum of the creative mind just after the endless and vast emptiness of this inner space had big-banged its elements into sudden creation. While my mind raced, my heart sunk. Too long too empty, this engine needed more than oil to bypass this sputtering, choking, hazard. One idea was better than the next, and like an eager poacher, each idea was partially plucked — half written down  — just before the next better specimen flew to a nest so wickedly hunted.

Was it sudden boredom or dejection that brought me to the erase-it-all realization that this tiny microcosm out of all the others was just another reflected copy of some other original story?

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