The bright L.E.D. backlight of my laptop has illuminated my face for the evening. My eyes have grown accustomed to the light as the absence of the day left me with a darkened room. The sound of my clicking keyboard is the only thing that sounds even remotely like life. I have sat, at this point, for hours. The various images and clips that I’ve pulled up on my screen have been countless, as my mind races to find some activity stimulating enough to catch my attention for more than a couple moments. I resort to what usually find myself doing, watching top ten lists of various aspects of movies or tv shows. Inside I know I need to do something, something to feel like the night means something, but it’s already late, and the list of tabs with video grows and keeps me in this space of indecision as my night floats on without me.
I did reach out to see if some of my friends wanted to hang out earlier, but alas no dice. To me, it feels like one of those evenings to talk about sad things, to swap stories about scars, about failures, about lost passions and rejection. To wallow in the center of intense emotion, finding some bonding in the darkness of the heart. A time to listen to heartwrenching songs and watch horribly sorrowful scenes of tv shows or movies. The kind of things that brings tears to the eye but happy in a way that we can be moved so much by them.
Well Alternatively, I could have gone driving around and see the night as I passed by the people out and about. Drove through the bright neons of Hollywood, the incandescent lights of the suburbs, or found some quiet, dark road that makes me feel like the whole universe disappeared. Doesn’t feel like one of those nights, especially with no one to share the moment.
I could start my next book, a book about the psychology of persuasion. I’m still not over the last one, processing all the messages I got from it. Trying to institute some sort of change in accordance to its recommendations given to the main character. I know I will get to it later this week so there is no rush.
Inside I know I have to write, I have regularly been writing to make a habit of it. Trying to make it an addiction, an obsession. Something to keep me up at night, something I have to do or else I feel off. It’s the romantic in me that has always wanted one of these kinds of obsessions. So I sit here, illuminated by the L.E.D. of my laptop with the clicking of the keyboard being the only thing that sounding remotely like life as I spend time thinking about the world and writing.