I keep sitting down, typing out the same sentence five times, changing the order in which the words march (or should I say fall in?) behind each other, rephrasing and rehashing. Pressing delete, staring at the screen, giving up.
I'm about to do it again..
A tangle of half thoughts lies to the left side of my brain, a muddle of syntax to my right, and try as I might I cannot make them match up.
There is an unwanted visitor inside my head, a great white tumor. Growing, pushing, pulsing, around corners and into cavities, all my spaces, down into the back of my throat.
I can't see around it, or hear through one ear, and my voice comes out so small.
This makes writing difficult.
The only way to do it, is fast.
Not looking at the screen, ignoring proper form and grammar, hitting "send" aggressively.
With a pen, words too small to read in the morning.
Lulling myself to sleep, with the scritch-scritch of metal transmitting ink to paper.
Because I'm more awake than I should be, and you're not there to talk to anymore.
I have to have something for company. If only a beat up old exercise book, dog eared and faded red around the edges.
And a very small cat. I mustn't forget our (my?.. the? I don't know which I'm meant to say) cat.
When he purrs, I remember that you cared for me once.