Words. Broken.The flashing cursor calls to me to reply,but I stare at it wondering what the perfect words would be,trying to describe this feeling that cannot be described,of hope,of despair,or something that simply cannot be said.I sit here wondering what to say,broken.
The Origins of a PlanChris sits in his dark home office bathed in the glow of the dual computer screens in front of him, staring at a flashing cursor on the page.He gets up and gets a soda from the mini-fridge in his office, and rearranges some of the empty soda cans on his desk to make room for the new one.He looks around at the nice hardwood desk and office furniture his parents gave him, and thinks how odd such expensive looking furniture must look inside a double wide trailer home. It's dark wood finish barely visible under the light of the large computer monitors.He thinks of his life so far, and he is not pleased. So many regrets; so many lost opportunities. He can't help to feel like a failure. Mostly because he is a failure.He lost his tech job because he wasn't buddies with the right people in middle management, and he got replaced by his new manager's best friend. They were jealous he was rising so fast in the company and even went so far as to lie to get him fired. It was one of the only job
Flickering in the NightChris sits in front of his computer, in the dark, once again. He can't sleep and what is even worse is the internet is down.The only thing useful that doesn't require internet access is some writing apps, and some porn he previously downloaded.The first thing he checks, via his mobile phone, is whether he paid the internet bill. He did not, but that wasn't why his internet was down. Apparently, there is an outage in the area. He pays the past due portion, just in case, resets the router a few times, and resigns himself to no internet until it's fixed."Well, there goes playing some video games," he thinks.So he opens up the writing app, and starts to think about what he will say.He was hoping for some kind of distraction. Instead he has to actually think.He thinks about what to write.First he thinks he should write about not having internet, and then he thinks that is boring."What about my fear of being myself?" he thinks. Maybe. But that's a whole can of worms. Can't really exp
The Flashing CursorIt's 4 am. I cannot sleep. So I get up and stare at the flashing cursor.It blinks.Waiting...Waiting so patiently...I have so much to say...but for some reason, I cannot say it.The cursor blinks some more, beckoning me forward, edging me on.But I do not speak, I do not type...I stare at the blinking cursor.blinking...blinking...and I think of the projects I should be working on, the novels that I could be writing, the websites I could be building, the lives I could be changing....and I think of the mistakes I have made in my life, the loves lost, the money not made, the missed opportunities, the pain and suffering I have endured, and the regrets, oh, the regrets.It's frustrating when you know you messed up, and you're not sure where to go next.And so the cursor blinks.And I stare.I stare at the endless possibilities of the flashing cursor.It's like staring into infinity.And I think..."What shall I create from these ashes? What will my legacy be?"The cursor flashes at
Just Getting a DrinkChris had gone to Fuddrucker's by himself for lunch, to order a delicious burger. The Southwestern burger, with Monterrey Jack cheese and guacamole to be exact, topped with pico de gallo and all the trimmings.As he is waiting for his burger, he decides to go to the soda fountain and get some Dr. Pepper.As he arrives, he notices that there are two soda fountains next to each other. There is a girl filling up her drink with Pepsi. She is probably in her upper teens or first years of college. He patiently waits behind her silently, and respectfully, mostly looking at the memorabilia on the walls.She notices him, and abruptly turns to him and barks, "Why are you standing there?" glaring at him like he was some kind of pervert.A bit shocked, Chris replies "Um, I'm getting a Dr. Pepper."With attitude, she barks "Then why aren't you using that one?" She motions to the soda fountain not in use.Chris replies, "Because I want Dr. Pepper, and your fountain has Dr. Pepper, and that one does
The Reason Why I'm QuietTired and depressed, I silently suffer.Supposedly people like me. They say I am nice.But I cannot speak, for fear of the consequences.I cannot admit failure, for people will think I am incompetent.I won't be able to get a job or get new clients.If I tell people about something fun I did or a game I played, they assume I don't do any work.If I work all day, and fail to produce the result, they assume I didn't put in any effort in at all.When I do accomplish things, if I talk about my accomplishments, they act like I am boring and arrogant.I cannot share alternate points of view, for fear someone might get offended.I cannot fight for the truth to be told without being told to STFU or being called names or harassed.People are too sensitive and way too invested in whatever they already believe to be challenged in any way.I cannot share my hopes and dreams without being told to give up my dreams.I cannot share my emotions without being told to suck it up and be a man.If I show