A Splinter In My Mind

Somewhere among longing, desire and addiction there is writing. A disease. A mental illness. The arrogant belief that people will care to read whatever words my fingers happen to spit onto the page. The hubris of it all.

There are better things to be doing. There is a Harry Potter marathon on TV. There is a racing bike that needs its wheels put together. There is a pile of cardboard that needs to go to the recycling center. But no. I have a thought. It must be recorded. Everything must stop and wait while I make another feeble attempt at immortality.

I shut off the TV, put my headphones on and tune the internet radio program to the goth-industrial-techno music that keeps me pumped up with its beat without the distraction of any intelligible lyrics. The idea is transferred through the fingers and the keyboard onto the virtual page. Seeing my idea transformed into letters and words relieves the awful itch in my brain. I have written. I have conquered thought.

I save the file in the "use later" folder along with all the other stuff I simply had to write down at the time. All the stuff I still believe I will some day find a use for, find an audience for. Someone must want to read this.