I can’t sleep. The cursor winks at me from blank white as I try to write it out but fail. No matter what I do I can’t bring life to this page. The white hurts. It tastes like the sun, sharp and kind of acidic, like my mouth when nausea hits. Maybe changing the colour will help?
Beige doesn’t seem to be doing much better. Characters are there, behind the page, suffocating. They’re trying to claw their way to the surface. They can’t. I can’t let them. I won’t let them? They wouldn’t like it on that page anyway.
It’s hard to step out of mediocrity when you don’t believe you deserve it. Months an idea can stir, wanting release, craving it, but those months will be lost in mediocrity. It won’t be any good. You’re no good. You won’t do it justice. You can never do it justice. It’s good in your head, but no one outside will ever want it. No one outside will ever want you.
The beige smells like great-grandma Halina’s flat. It doesn’t help at all. Maybe this yellowed parchment texture will help? It seems organic enough. Sometimes paper helps. A notebook, perhaps? The soothing scratches of pencil on paper. The pencil moves itself. Maybe I did the wrong degree, my pencil asks me as it forms a face, tired by years of expectations never met. But you don’t deserve to meet those expectations, do you? As much as much as you want to go above and beyond you hold your own ankles while everyone else works for their success.
Mediocrity becomes you, my dear. It looks lovely on your tired face, illuminated by the clinical glare of a sleepless night. All of the sleepless nights. You could go on, do something productive. Instead the glare makes you a phantom, a floating head in the lonely dark. Are you really crying if no one can hear it?
Nobody wants to hear about how you can’t deal with wanting to succeed. It’s conceited. You either do, or don’t. You’re cocky for leaving things till the last minute, expecting to do well. But you don’t. You want something to hate yourself for. You see that mediocrity, that failure, within your reach and you want it for yourself. You allow yourself that brief happiness when, somehow, it goes well but you question why. Did you really deserve it for that half-assed piece of work? It’s useless, awful. No one would really ever want to read any more. Ever. It’s cheap, uses too much of everything everyone’s ever heard of. It tastes of salt.
I stare at the page. Glance at the time. Less than twenty-four hours till submission. I supose it’s time to churn something out. Find something else to hate myself for. So I finally write.