I take my hands and unsure of what needs to happen next, I go.

This makes no sense, but I refuse to allow writer’s block to define me as I press on in suspense. Perhaps I will include some sporadic rhyming. My English teachers would shake their heads and shudder at my lack of proper patterns and timing.

“Your rhymes are pathetic,” they would say as they laugh and take their red pens to grant me one more failing grade. So many others are so eloquent in the black and white stains they leave on hypothetical pieces of paper staring back at them from their computer screens.

The murmurs of the travesties and failings of the world keep on, as the television never stops talking. The United States listeners may never start uniting. I hate the blabber of complaint the TV makes. Yet I cannot bring myself to unplug along with the others as we continue to do nothing, sealing our fates.

The coffee is getting cold. I am getting old.

Another piece of writing for my eyes only… It has been so long. I want to stop and correct my mistakes, but sometimes, that is not the case. Mistakes are made every day. There is no delete or backspace on the keyboard of life, no matter how much of a reflex it is to take my pinkie finger and reach over to my right.

I take it back.

Decades ago- centuries ago “I take it back” was a dream. Adulterous lovers who were caught in the act only praying they could just take it back. Words thrown into the air in the heat of conflict are left floating there until the house is empty with no more occupants.
Social media has deleted our span of attention down to six seconds of streaming. We are chained by this lie we insist on believing. Reading from the glow of a computer screen ruins the chance for us to get lost in the pages. A 700-word blog post is far too long. I do not have the time to appreciate that poem or song.

Although I am sure the ending is magnificent.

Am I really trying to rhyme at random? True talent comes and goes like a phantom. Televisions, Facebook friends, and Twitter have taken our talent like a one night hitter. How dare I hide my baby muse in the corner?
Seriously? I still have the TV on?

How much I envy the sojourner. He is a hypothetical “he,” maybe born next to Christopher Columbus, Sir Francis Drake, or some other foreigner. My eyes turn green as I read about his latest scheme. He travels through the new world searching for purpose while the rest of us in the millennial age are contemplating our next online purchase. The pitter-patter of the rain drums onto his cap as he marvels the star’s demand for attention despite thunder’s clap.

Would he be ashamed if he could see us today?

We hide away from the rain as we complain. Our pitter-patter is only in the form of our own phalanges drumming on the keyboard as we search for our meaning by typing out a similar strife…

Purpose of life…


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