Flash Fiction number 12 is here!
The Eternal Circle
One thing leads to another; around and around within my mind. Do I do this? Do I do that? Do I know what I’m doing at all? Where is the answer? I pick up a half full glass of cheap whisky and gulp it down in one go, shaking my head from its potency. I stare at the screen; watch the words cross my view from left to right, and reach out for them. But I hit a wall, something dark and beyond my sight. The chair leans back and my feet arch upwards and rest on the desk, kicking the keyboard to one side. I watch it fall off the desk without a care in the world to try and catch it; to stop it falling to its doom. I grab the bottle of liqueur and bypass the glass completely, precious fire water drowning my shirt. I stare at the light brown patch among the white blanket, its edges creeping further and further across me like a viral infection; intoxicating and corrosive
The bottle is empty now. I hear it smash onto the floor into millions of shards of razor sharp torment, satisfied with my outlet. Frustration looms up again in my chest as I lean back even further, eyes fixated on the ceiling fan as it whirls around rhythmically like a sorcerer’s pin wheel. I am… mesmerised by it. I can escape this, if only for a short while. Do I dare boot up a computer game? What the hell… won’t hurt.
No, no, no. I shouldn’t be doing this.
Go ahead and cry you useless pile of dirt. Look at you sitting there on that padded chair, playing games when you should be writing a best seller… what the hell is wrong with you, eh? Why can’t you just get on with it? You need to have concentration and determination. Going out once a week somewhere to sit down and write isn’t enough you moron. Even doing short pieces for a blog or something would be better than stinking in that pit of a room of yours.
Wake up and smell the morning air once in a while; try your hardest to gear yourself up, maybe using the positive thinking.
What’s the point? I tell myself all this crap over and over again and I just go back to the ‘cannot be bothered’ routine; sink into another depression, and then get nothing done. I say I’m a writer but I’m just a child, scared and wary of the big wide world.
Stop going on like this…
Maybe it’s better if I give up and save the bother.
Fearing the rejection? Afraid of not being good enough? Or is it just that little demon that you’ve carried around with you that does nothing but laugh at your own timidness. Here’s a wake up call for you, Mr Writer; you won’t get anywhere if you just give up. Fearing the rejection and failure all the way through your life will just grind you down into nothing but a sad little person who will never know success. You cannot go through like like this. Without trying in the first place, how do you know whether or not you’ll succeed?
Why aren’t you around all the time?
What is it about you that stops me?