Cursor

This is so intimidating,

This blank screen, with the little blinking cursor.

You've seen it before. Right before you write a big essay, or type an important letter.

The cursor blinks, taunting you, telling that you aren't good enough to do this. To write that paper, letter, story, anything.

The only way to get rid of it is to type.

Usually how we escape that is by writing our name, then the date. Or to address the person we are talking to. To get our bearings, to reaffirm the situation, to prove you know what you are doing. To reinstate that you know who you are, when you are, and what you are trying to do.

 

But its all just a facade, that little blinking cursor knows, knows that you are still scared. No matter how fast you type, no matter how fast the words come out of your finger tips, you will still eventually have to hit the backspace button, and that is when it gets you. The little line starts flashing again. And all of a sudden you are unsure of what you were going to do. Was I really going to write the word forever? Why would I do that? That isn't right. I must be mistaken.

 

So here I sit, about to tell you...what was I going to tell you? I don't remember. I was distracted by the little line. I might have decided to tell you a fairy tale of how an angel fell from heaven and consequently fell in love with a boy with spiky hair and a harsh attitude, or maybe some drivel about how some girl found herself while traveling with a mad man. Or maybe a tear-jerker about a man has no friends. It doesn't matter now, you aren't listening.

 

 

 

 

Or maybe you are...

 

 

 

And the little cursor blinks on.

The End

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