There’s that one perfect moment upon opening a document when the individual letters and numbers and punctuations marks, the glyphs that make up the fabric of what it is you’re trying to communicate, resolve and re-order into the positions where you last remember leaving them, and for that split second you believe that what you wrote the day before will make some kind of sense of the pain and turmoil that’s been swirling around the dirty drain that you call a heart.
Then the moment passes and you’re left staring at the strange and nigh-incomprehensible strings of sentences and their related or unrelated fragments, and scratching your head and sipping your drink and wishing, wishing a soul-screaming wish, that smoking was still acceptable, still known only as an affectation and character-defining habit instead of an express vehicle to a cancerous hell.
But there is something here, in the page, something that more closely resembles the mad charcoal scribblings of an insane person rather than a definitive work of modern literature, and this something is infinitely more preferable than the nothing that preceded it. Even the blank page that fills the screen and the room with a blinding white light prior to loading the previous work causes twinges of terror. Yet that void is gone, and there is creation happening in its place now, and it is messy and it is muck-ridden and it is filthy in its orgiastic production.