Story-writing

The clackity-clack of his keyboard continued unabated. The clacking seemed to bounce off the hard walls and echo back in what he wrote. The distant dying laughter of the last party animal didn’t quite bother him, though he sensed the mood of a party unwilling to die. Not much made sense around him – the darkness was enveloping him, shrouding everything that he saw, in nothingness, even though the two sixty-watt bulbs stoically stood their ground. He wasn’t looking at the words, they hardly meant anything – he knew that already – no reason to use the backspace key – no reason to use better words – no reason to make anything sound poetic. He realised he wasn’t sitting very comfortably in his chair, yet not one of the alive muscle in his body made the slightest attempt to correct what they would have to suffer in a few minutes. He wondered if his mind or his soul or his spirit had left his body and there remained only an obedient machine, as if run by inertia, powered by burning itself, feeding the power back, continuing a cycle. Where was that moment when some action would change the course of what was going on? What was the trigger that this incessant typing would stop and wonder how to make meaning? Why was there no reason anymore in any action that occurred? The author, the subject and the environment seemed all to be twirling into a single mass of bone, flesh and entrails. There was nothing to be differentiated, nothing left to identify any element, to know its purpose.

He paused now, looked up at the screen. He looked for long at what he had written.

He saw his face in the mirror-like screen; in between the twirling digital rainbow, he stared hard and finally moved his mouse to get rid off the screen saver.

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