Anxious sweat drops slowly slide down my arms
as I hammer the keys, franticly trying to come up with a viable sentence or
two.
My
fingers desperately search for the right combinations, little patterns which I
have come to know off by heart, writing and spelling becoming a rhythmic
exercise timed to the beat of expectation. Hastily I try and arrange a few more
characters and relay some mundane little wisdom that I have come across,
disguising it as one of my own. The guilt only comes later and that’s not the
greatest concern at the moment, it’s the encroaching absence of time.
A place only known to those who have ever
been expected to come up with some product of original thought. That’s where my
problem lies, the originality of what is created.
Like Conrad’s Marlowe states “Men who come
out here should have no entrails...”
The deadline; an impending doom, the last
breath before the plunge, that fearful moment when there is no more time left
and no more changes can be made. The finality of the product becomes reduced to
the last second left before the click of a mouse as it becomes open for the
world to see.
Gathering in speed and ferocity it comes
reeling at me, the force which drives, scares and pushes me to produce, often
leaving me by the wayside beaten and betrayed. The rhythmic ticking of the
omniscient narrator, sitting, hanging or strapped to each one of us directing
the flow of our contrived little attempt.
Tonight as I sit and enjoy the freedoms of my
youthful excess, dabbling in things that no self respecting Calvinist would
even dream of, you might stumble upon these inane ramblings, skilfully
disguised as something which might have some meaning - maybe if you try and read it in context..
