500 Words Per Day

I’m writing 500 words per day. I don’t know what about yet but I suspect I’ll figure it out as I go. How can I be a writer that doesn’t write every day?

Every situation is a lesson. I’m in the middle of the classroom with the bastard teacher that will never pass me anyway. I’m trying to think of something specific so you know what I’m talking about but I can never come up with specifics. Where do they go when I need them? These experiences are abstract paintings that start as vapor mysteries and then I grab them from the air so I can have them in my muscles too. The feelings come through vague geometric shapes and colors. I could never explain it to anyone. A thick metal bar running through a careen of pale blue paint, only it’s not gooey like paint, it’s thin like clouds so maybe it’s the sky. An orange block like a square, only it’s not actually a square, more how I imagine a square in a dream, I know it’s a square even though it isn’t really, which I also know. This square becomes rectangle that frays at the edges and evaporates into three dimensions. It’s anxiety. Red and orange maybe the tightening of my chest is like concrete that doesn’t have a smooth finish and I’m waiting by the train but any minute my teeth are going to hit the pavement and collapse into my face. The thing is, it hurts. Thing also is, I threw myself down teeth first because I needed my teeth knocked in at that exact moment or my skin would get too tight. It stings like aluminum brackets lodged against my temples being carried between two buses driving up the coast. They can’t pace each other correctly because the road is narrow so I’m clenching my jaw and closing one eye at a time because, to be honest, this is almost too much before I might pass out. Anxiety passes though. It’s just a shitty bus ride. The powdery grey and white carpet rumble through my eyeballs and scratch my back with my passed grandma’s nails. It’s juicy without having any liquid. I’ll take the break but it’s going to pass and I’ll be fighting something soon, will it be aliens? or just bad guys? guys with guns that want to hurt normal people. It’s so easy to hide from them and let it pass because the normal people are clueless and I’m trained in combat and I also happen to have a brain that was designed specifically for the end of the world. I don’t know what to say, I just know what to do in these situations. But that burn comes back and someone is having a bonfire inside my heart. It’s possible to believe that I am bulletproof now. I know it’s possible because I am. And through the crowd I march and I’ll kill every last one of those people before I wake up and it’s been ten years of war in my body and just one deep breath would be nice but I know the first six hours aren’t going to be normal. Every situation is a lesson though. The fire becomes the blue carpet because I want to feel wholesome in a moment that should burn. I can do that because it’s easy. The men don’t have guns. I want them to so I can kill them but I’ll just talk to them instead and we’ll be friends and nobody will get hurt. This works on most days, except for when I can’t live without some form of blood and they don’t let me at the train stop anymore because three times last week I hit my face on the ground.

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