It’s been three years, blog, and sometimes I wonder what it would be like if you weren’t here. I start by lifting my hands from this keyboard. My fingers are stiff and fragile, soft and unused. My left wrist cracks in the air, and I listen to the sound of it breaking into the silence of the night like a clumsy thief.
Then I puzzlingly look at the blank, white page in front of me. It spreads in every direction, a testament that on it anything is possible. The greatest story ever told along with the saddest, the first formulation of the Grand Unification Principle and the winning argument to any debate – all of it and then some is there, and I am there too in between the breathlessness of one point to another, but I cannot see these possibilities. I instead see white – an empty, lifeless, bright white – and I close my eyes, crack my right wrist, and hear the screeches of bones rubbing together again. Then I move, I do, I laugh, and the next day rolls on in between.
The computer is here to greet me in the morning. The page is still there, still untouched, still probing me to write if I can. I try. It comes out lumpy and careless. A scattershot trying to hit a target fifty feet away. The words seem foreign on the page like a faint whisper left undeciphered and unintelligible. I hammer again. The metal whirrs on my keyboard. Some of the keys are dirty, hesitant to click. I pound them into shape. I am left with: aaaaaaaaassssssssssssssssss. It is just about the only thing that makes sense, though I convince myself I have read it somewhere.
I look outside – day streams into my window invitingly. I know it does this everyday, and I’m taking the warmth too personally. Day would come and go if I came and went somewhere else. Worse – it would do so without me. But the sun tickles my toes and I tickle the words and after fifteen minutes, aaaaaaaaassssssssssssssssss is all I have. It is a masterpiece. My masterpiece. Then I click again, see nothing worthwhile, mumble something about writers block, get up, move, do, laugh, and the next day rolls on in between.
Aaaaaaaaassssssssssssssssss smiles at me the next day too. It is all I have left from yesterday. I don’t remember what happened to the rest. I must’ve deleted it. I’m thankful I did. Aaaaaaaaassssssssssssssssss is good enough. Not just because it came from me but because it is me coming from others – the wordsmiths, the language vanguards, the billions of people before and after me. I think that this idea would be nice to type. I try. I read. I erase. I try again. The keys get stuck. I clean. I have: yuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu after two hours.
Aaaaaaaaassssssssssssssssss yuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu – it’s practically a sentence. It’s a day’s work. So I move, I do, I laugh, and the next day rolls on in between.
I read what I’ve produced in a fit of grogginess and disappointment. Three days have passed, and I was expecting better by now. Instead, I have Aaaaaaaaassssssssssssssssss yuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu or yuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu Aaaaaaaaassssssssssssssssss. None looks more correct than the other. So I highlight, delete, the page becomes blank again, and so do I.
Blank. I start again. Then four days later, again. A week, again. A year, again.
It goes on like that – type, type, type, click, click, click. But I stop one day. It is quite all of a sudden. It is in between this domestic success or this other meaningless work, you know, those kinds where you’re filing papers for an employer and they just put it on your desk and you said, yeah, yeah, sure, I’ll do it because don’t you want to look good and shit it’s an easy job and you’re tired and then the papers are more than you expected and whose job was it last anyways and probably no ones because it hasn’t been done in years and wait a second – why do I even care about this, what am I doing, and you read: Campbell and you wonder what he or she or whatever is doing and if they are happy and why you are so unhappy after living some forty years of this life. Shouldn’t you have figured it out by now? Shouldn’t you do what you want? Shouldn’t you know what that is? And then you stop. You put down the papers. And you leave, you move, do, laugh, and the next day rolls on in between.
This has not happened, blog. I’d say I’m sorry for it, but I can’t be. Forty years haven’t passed and there are so many papers I still need to file. Hell. Some I might even need to write myself.
You’ve allowed me a place to do this. Without it, I’d just move, do, laugh, and yadda yadda yadda. I wouldn’t even have a place for senseless repetition, and isn’t the point of senseless repetition to senselessly repeat senseless repetition?
Either way, we’ve done a lot of stuff while we’ve booted around. You already know about this, so I won’t repeat myself. I’ve already done that enough. And I’ve already joked about it too.
But you’re three, and so by now, you can probably talk in the language of baby-garbles. Don’t be embarrassed to try to do so. I started off like that. I sometimes wonder if I’ve ever moved on from there. I mean – look…
Oh. Hi, blog. You caught me while I was writing.
Oh. How are ya.
I’m doing well, and yourself?
So, tell me about…
Why you write like that?
So direct now, aren’t you blog?
I thought you’d be more roundabout just given how much I’ve…
Why write that?
What do you mean?
I just do it because it’s what I know how to do.
Why no learn other stuff?
I should probably, blog, but you see time gets short and there’s so much to learn and, well, I just am too busy.
But you write this?
Yes, I am writing this. That’s correct.
Correct. It means right. Like you are right.
Yes. But you were asking why I am writing this?
Because it’s your birthday, blog. Do you know what that means?
You were born this day – April 21st.
Well, I loved this girl and she loved me and that’s how you came into existence.
Because we broke off and I had to tell someone. So I told you.
Because you were there.
I guess you didn’t have anywhere else to go. You were just here, waiting, listening, no matter what I said or how I said it. Even this. Especially this.
Ask yourself, blog. Why?
That’ll get us nowhere. Try. Try to answer it.
Because of me? That’s wonderful.
I stuck. I stuck here.
Well, I’m not sure if you’re stuck exactly, blog. You’re, well, a page.
It’s hard to imagine, but that’s exactly what it is – that empty gap in thought, the unknown, anything and everything and yet nothing all at once.
It’s not a bad thing. It’s a great thing. You can be anything. And you’ve already grown so much.
That is my fault, really. Don’t take it out on yourself.
I know. I used to say love is happiness that hurts. And I’m happy with you, so I hurt you.
Ha. Back at it, are we?
Look, blog, I’m sorry. I really am. I know you never asked to be here and you never asked for me to be here either, but here we are, together. And know I’ve tried to be gentle with you. I have. In the beginning, I ensured each word was planned, each sentence pointed, and I said what I meant to say by ensuring that I said what I wanted to say. But things happened. You’ll learn that. It’s the only way to say it. Things always do. And they did. And they will in the future again. And I’ll probably come here, and it’ll be a Saturday, and it’ll be so sunny, and so beautiful, and I’ll feel like shit, and I’ll tell you, and it’ll be like swallowing pieces of broken glass while I do…
You like baseball?
Thanks for shutting me up. Sorry again. Us adults talk too much and we don’t know when to put the period and …
Sorry one last time. Hard to say. I don’t know much about it.
You have story about baseball.
I know. I like it. It’s a metaphorical tale, though.
When you say something and mean something else.
What you mean?
Something else, I guess.
It’s alright. Most of the time, I don’t either. You are proof of that.
Ya. Scribbles, scribbles, scribbles.
That’s one way to put it. For the last time – I promise – I’m sorry about that too.
Can I ask something? What do you want to be when you’re older?
But you are one, remember?
Like what, then?
You say imagine, ya?
Yes I did.
And I imagine.
And what did you see?
What were you doing?
Everything. Good stuff. Bad stuff. Stuff. Happy. Sad. I empty sometime but fill whole life. All black ink. All white gone. One colour. Me. Black.
That’s nice. How will you get there?
With this. And this. And this. And this. And this. And this.
Oh. Well, okay. It won’t be easy.
You’ll want to give up.
You’ll wonder why the heck you started in the first place.
I determined. Determined. Determined. Determined.
Ha, that’s right.
Correct indeed. Now I’ll let you play.
Okay. I’ll try to keep up, then.