I sit here at my new desk and the truth is, I have writer's block again. Once I realized that there wasn't really any magic left in the world, it's been hard to be a magician. I try and do the same rituals and even when they get close to success, they aren't. The words have been distilled to simple keystrokes and clever turns of phrase, but they sure as fuck aren't magic. On my old keyboard, I typed so hard I burned through all the letters. It looked blank to everyone else, but to me, I knew right where the keys were. I still have never achieved that with this laptop, but I've tried. The words made with this keyboard are mere haunts and hints of the past. I can feel the writing leaking out of me, as I fall to my knees, trying to scoop it all up and swallow it so I don't lose whatever I have left. Once, I wrote without fear and took no prisoners. Today, every word is a meek utterance and an admission. The flesh has failed me, my mind has failed me, my words have failed me. Every law and theory I believed in has been proven false. The bees swim and the birds crawl. The fish just walked past me and said hello. The dog asks me why I drive this way every day, but he knows the answer. I wonder myself why it takes me so many hours to get home. Why do I stop in every store? Is it because the toys make me feel better? Or am I just looking for a brief connection to a humanity that I feel moments away from turning my back on forever? Will I find humanity in all night supermarkets, anyways? Why do I worry about how I dress when I basically wear the same thing every day?

Photo - N
Words - S