I had another abortion today.

The cursor stares me down as if we’re playing chicken. I run at it, crashing into it with each keystroke. I try not to let it flash, try not to let it take a breath, but in the end I swerve, I give in and give up; I press CTRL-A, DEL.

How many of my prematurely deleted starts would’ve bore something? How many of these mental abortions have I had? Each one filling me with a millilitre of doubt, inside me is an accumulated body of water; the water is troubled, dark, and doubtful. This is not automatic writing. If only it were that easy.

If only I could write an idea on a piece of paper then put it in the microwave for 3-5 minutes, take it out and find a fully cooked story. Microwaves don’t cook from the inside out. It has something to do with radio waves and vibration. This is starting to be automatic writing, the cursor is running away.

Paragraph upon paragraph stacked on top of each other like thin, yet weighty slabs of concrete. Compressing the story, squeezing out the juices. The cursor blinks out the beats of my heart, my heart blinks as the cursor beats it.

The abortions take a toll. Some where, deep within my brain, somewhere beside codes for Contra is a running tally. It's a reminded, a fridge magnet on my mind. A reminder that I couldn't commit, that I was lustful, that I started and did not think and in the end couldn't follow through. There is nothing wrong with lust, aside from when it's misplaced. It's the following through that eats at me.