Just a writer

So there’s some lights on my wall and a few of them are fading a little more each night and no this is not a setting for them. The ones that aren’t fading keeps hope alive that one day I might be able to reach them. You choose a playlist collect a few songs and sit down with them in the nighttime a fan circles in the summer heat and erases the words on the tips of your fingers so you grab the keyboard, ready the fingers on the home row willing them to fly as fast as the words read on the screen on your brain and soon words are erased with every blink of a threatening cursor and you’re just a writer so you don’t know how to forgive a cursor who’s only doing the job it’ll always have and that’s not it’s fault but you’re just a writer and none of your feelings are healthy because you can’t separate those from fiction. You’re just a writer who’s lost like every other writer and yearning for something better like fingers that won’t cramp on the grasp of a pen because you barely remember how to hold one and paper that doesn’t run out of space when your mind and tongue and fingers are in sync because turning to a new page eats up time you already wasted but you’re just a writer and the strings of lights on your wall don’t listen to your wishes but swear they read the last thing you wrote.

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