I am tapping this out at work, which I am rather pleased with because I am on my own in the entire company. Some might say I’m ‘running the place’ myself, because I am. Thus I am able to do at work that which I never normally do; my own shit.
I sit with my back to the office. My monitor can be viewed by everyone, which has forced me to become diligent and conscientious every fucking minute of the day. With ringing phones and a constant stream of customers just turning up, as they are wont to do, even my lunchbreaks are brief and sporadic - so trust me when I say how therapeutic writing this is right now.
But it’s more than therapeutic. It’s also something of a rarity. You see, over the last week, something strange has happened. It’s extremely aggravating but I’m taking it in my stride, convinced that it’s all part of my natural, fucked up brain chemistry and ultimately I’ll snap out of it. I think it’s popularly known as writer’s block. I’d always thought that a respectable, bona fide creative obstruction was a maddening stare at a blank page or computer screen but in my case, it’s that with a strange dash of peace. I can’t quite explain it. It’s like watching someone lead a marathon and, just as the end is in sight and they’re about to cross, they come to a standstill and just look around, thinking.
I should be mad at myself for spending last weekend throwing beige food down my throat as I watched anything on Youtube, spending every waking minute in front of my computer doing absolutely no writing at all despite opening my 230-page document only to immediately ignore it. I should even be annoyed that all this week after work, I’ve written the collective total of just one paragraph but strangely, I don’t care. I really can’t explain it. In fact, I’m rather amused by it, as if my subconscious wants to punish my positivity and taking charge of my life by obstreperously making me stop.
However, it’s Friday morning. I love Fridays. They are your golden teenage years, when you were thinner, and less cynical, and less wrinkly, in day form. Fridays beckon in long lie-ins, and gentle ambles, and bestow upon you your own time to do with as you please (unless you work in a shop). And with mine, I’m choosing to give myself an ultimatum; If I cannot use this weekend to reverse this bizarre writing rut, if I cannot slap myself around the head, crack on and just finish this, then I may as well give up. And if nothing gives and everything's as good as over, I should just accept that and give in to that strange thought that’s popped back into my head whenever life has got too much:- Leave. Run. Flee.
This has taken the form of a daydream where I tell my boss I quit, tell my flatmate I’m leaving, and get on my bicycle and pedal away. I have pondered this for some time now, thoughts of filling my rucksack and cycling to France, then Italy, then central Europe, and never stopping until I attain nirvana or get laid, whatever comes first, although I strongly suspect neither.
Yet I’m well aware that I’ve run away from myself before, only to find that the fucker’s gone and followed me.
So yeah. There we go. One big existentialist burp of nothing.
Hey ho. I guess I’d better get back to my day job.
Have a good weekend, all.