Bootless

Scribble. Crumble. Toss.

Scribble, crumble, toss.

It's become a sick game, played out of despair and sometimes boredom.

Rhythmic, catchy, deadly.

Scribble, crumble, toss.

Try, fail, discard.

Rinse and repeat.

Crumble. Toss. Missed.

Stop. Reluctantly get up, put the rouge projectile in it's place. Try again.

Ready, aim, toss. Made it.

This waste of time, this cycle of maddening nothingness. Crumble, toss.

No longer writing, just tossing. Missing. No good. All of it.

Clock laughs. Stomach growls. Eyes itch. Spirits fall. Darkness deepens.

My eyes fly open.

The road appears before me, slivers of light through oppressive cloud cover. The gate is open.

Scribble. Faster, faster, write, dance, run before it vanishes! GO!

I am somewhere far from here, moving very swiftly, spanning worlds and realms undiscovered.

Desperately trying to hold on.

Fingers slip. Hand cramps. Pencil breaks.

Like a dog abruptly reaching the end of its leash.

Gone.

Crumble. Sigh. Toss.

The wastebasket overflows. My mind is vacant.

Maybe I'm trying too hard.

Maybe I'm not trying hard enough.

Fall asleep regretting everything I never wrote.