I sit and listen to the steady swishing of the second hand revloving around Malcolm's wall clock.  Have you actually ever heard the second hand?  I never knew that it made any sound until I was faced with the emptiness of my lack of creativity.  I'm completely dried up and all I can manage to think about is everything going wrong in my life: all of the failures, all of the almosts, all of the reasons why I should not ever be able to write anything.  How I can't manage to get a measley four pages of I story I already know written in any satisfactory way.  I'm not full of anything and every word, every sentence, is like pulling a cruise ship anchor ashore... painstakingly impossible.  WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME.  Do you know how much I've written in my life?  LOTS.. LOOOTTTSS.  Pages and pages of useless inner reflection and observation for absolutely no one, and the moment I have the ability to use my joy for something productive, I have nothing to say.  I wonder if I'd be this disturbingly neurotic if I had a job.  Probably not.  

The funniest thing just happened:

I can't tell you how much energy I expend battling myself and my own demons.  At my worst I have constant chatter about why I can't have or do whatever I want to have or do, about how everything's going wrong and will never go right; how I'll never be loved or accepted or whatever other destructive thoughts I have.  I try to keep each of these battles to myself, but they undoubtedly spill over and become the predominate subject of conversation with my friends and loved ones.  I'm sure they are tired about hearing about my difficulties and my worries and my fears.  That said, what do I do?  Do I continue to jeopardize my relationships by constantly dumping on my friends until they avoid my phone calls and talk about me as the weak link of their clique.  Do I accept my role as the whiner?  Do I stop releasing these thoughts in hopes to receive assurance and comfort?   Absolutely not.  I just diversify my dumping ground.  

So I thought to myself, who ELSE could I call to talk AT as I try to work out the issues of my life.  I thought I could call my manager and express my worried under the guise of a discussion about the market and our goals as business partners.  Then I'd subversively sneak in the fact that I'm a failure, and broke, and unwanted.  Then I thought, "What are you thinking about!  You can't show her your weakness!  If you show her how much you've lost faith in yourself, how can you expect her to demonstrate any faith in you?"  Then I thought, "Why should I hide the real me from her.  LIfe ain't always a box of chocolates, sometimes it's shit."

And just then, the phone rang.  It was Cyrena.  I greeted her with as much optimism as I could, "Tell me something good," I said.  "Everything's going to be alright," she said without missing a beat.  I threw my head back in tearful laughter.  How perfect that she responded that way.  That's why I love her.  Then she said, "No, seriously, you have an audition for a film EVERYTHING'S GOING TO BE ALRIGHT for the role of Nicole."

And we fell out. 

Everything's going to be alright.