Orange Light

The reality is that I have nothing to write. Fuck. That little bastard. I don't know when it was, was I twenty three? Bastard. That bastard twenty three year old set that upper limit of writing something by the time I was thirty. Now, I have three and a half months left. I have nothing to write. Isn't this writing? I don't know. I don't even know what writing is. If I open a book to read, then that is writing. This isn't a book, so it can't be writing. So I am left in a room on a Friday night with an empty wine glass and cigarettes smoked outside, shoved down the side of the fence as cars and buses fly passed the other side, turning from Webb onto Willis, flying like ideas passed me. I hear them, but by the time I turn they are gone. And when the lights are red, there they are, like big fat red balloons, shining back at me, beaming with smiles that laugh and twist and turn the moment, yelling at me in gust of wind, shoving ideas in my face. I stare back with dumb, blank looks, not getting it, not getting like a teenager in a bar full of adults. Could I just catch one? Just one, delicate buttefly idea? Not yet. Not yet. Not one that I have caught and held and pinned down on the page, writing words over it to hold it, like miniature ropes, scribing it onto the page.

I look at the light, the orange plastic light, until it burns bright orange light onto the back of my eyes. How much did that light cost anyway? I bet it cost a lot. I don't know because it was given to me. That sweet girl who moved her with me, who travelled her and stayed for a week before heading away. I went to work and she stayed her, then I came home at night and she was her, the sweet girl with the peachy bum and the smile that went on for streets and streets, who is now gone.

The sliding door is wide open and mosquitos can come in for all I care. I think it is mosquitos. I have bites on my legs and arms and they must be mosquito bites. Heaven forbid that they are fleas, because then I'm not as clean as I think I am. The shame of fleas. Socially, mosquito bites are fine, because they don't discriminate. Fleas are a different thing. There is a big label called Stigma attached to the forehead of anyone who gets bitten by a flea and they may as well be a leper. There is music playing too. Maybe my ideas are there. But I can't see the music. I look hard at the speaker and I can just see the vibration on the grilled mesh, but it doesn't quite translate to the sound. I am looking for something tangible and real, but it can't actually be tangible and real, otherwise I am just a journalist. It must be something that I can see, but someone else can't, because then it is interesting. It is gossip. It is a fabrication of reality that just might be real. I keep thinking about things I can write. I write the best things just as I am on the toilet or in the shower, but then when I get back out and sit down to write it, it has gone, so I go back to the toilet or the shower, but it isn't there. Why does this have to so fucking elusive?

I talk to the sweet girl on instant messenger. In doing so, I yearn for a touch of her flesh. I dream of her being on top of me, in bed, with her legs straddled either side of me, with me inside her, insider her soft, wet and warm sex. Her sides feel real. I feel her body move in my hands, her muscles writhing around as she wriggles and moves on top of me. Warm, wet, soft sex. She blows in my ear. She rubs her cheek against mine. Oh you sexy thing. Where are you now? I know where you are. You are not here. Could I write about you? I think I'd like to write about love.