He glances in the mirror at his now Tim Riggins-looking hair. He imagines her hands in it.
He walks away.
He sits down with his computer, to once again face the cliche of the flashing cursor on a white screen.
He has a story to tell. Well, not really a story.
He tries to remember the last good thing he wrote.
He remembers sending an email to the past. He mentioned a relationship with rules having “more loop holes than those tall-ass Doc Martens.” He loved that line. For a minute. Now he cringes.
He thinks about how some of the best things he’s written have only ever been read by whoever inspired them.
He hates that.
He likes that.
He recently told a friend that his muse “always caresses my cheek softly with one hand, while punching me in the gut with the other.”
He was being a little tongue-in-cheek when he wrote that. But…
He wonders if the angst really helps his writing.
He worries that contentment makes him boring.
He wonders if lack of drama is really contentment.
He wrote something a while back:
i miss me
that is over
He debates the lies to truth ratio in that.
He wonders how much pain he can take for creativity. Or how much he is willing to take.
He loves vagueness in writing, but not in life.
He puts his computer aside.
He grabs a lined pad and pen, to once again face the cliche of the blank page.
He’s getting his hair cut tomorrow.