Snarling obscenities to myself, I open the refrigerator and pull out another strong cold beer.
Huffing with the effort, I open the beer with the opener and drop the cap off in the bin where it rattles along with its brothers and sisters of bottle caps and beer caps empty cans and empty bottles of the previous night’s consumption.
I sit down to the keyboard barely able to remember my name only aware of the ball of steel that throbs a seething ball of love and hate deep in my stomach.
It burns like a planet on fire ever expanding, ever consuming everything in its path. I throw everything at it but it in turn just consumes it with flame.
How am I ever going to be able to finish my novel and tell the world my story, of what happened to me when I was young?
It would not make any difference anyway. It’s all buried under so much sticky toffee pudding its all goo and irretrievable to me to comprehend. How does the man born blind explain blindness to you? I don’t know who I hate. I no longer know how to love. I don’t care for enemies but I have them. Nothing is worthwhile except the short pieces of prose I can achieve or poetry in blank verse.
I’ll be honest. I had hoped for more.