I can’t write anymore. I hire an editor. She recommends a therapist.
I arrive at the front desk. I share a recent dream in which I tell a stranger nobody understands what I’m trying to say. The stranger agrees but this resolves nothing.
The receptionist says she’s not a therapist. She will be with me in a moment. I give her my number and a cup of water. She looks thirsty. I’m talking about the receptionist. I am told in no uncertain terms to keep my voice down.
I author a book from front to back in a waiting room. I quit dreaming.
I tell a stranger I’m vulnerable. I don’t recommend announcing this in a dark alley after midnight. Or on a first date if you’re into meeting people. A blog is fine. I’m done with books.
I am vulnerable. I write books nobody reads. Books nobody bothered to write but me. Nobody understands what I’m trying to write. Books aren’t blogs aren’t dreams. I fire my editor. This resolves nothing.
I enter a stranger’s dream and say nobody understands what it’s like to tell people on the internet you’re vulnerable. He’s angry with me. I bite my tongue. He throws his voice.
Books are for dummies.
I buy a book on Amazon. I date a receptionist.
Books are finished.
A stranger tells his therapist in my dream I don’t understand what I’m trying to say. I agree and this resolves everything. I decide to write cryptic blogs to throw off people on the internet.
I fuck my editor in a dark alley. She says I’m a bad writer. Repeat after me. I’m a bad rider.
I take back my book. Every word.
I write down everything I’m trying to say. I quit therapy because I’m too smart for this shit.
I am dumber than a blog post.
Somebody buys my book and it arrives by drone.
I am thirsty. An author waiting for my therapist tells me he can’t write any more.
I ask him to elaborate. This adds words to the universe. Words aren’t people aren’t drones. I see right through the universe. My book drops. Nobody picks it up.
A stranger will see me now. My therapist asks me to elaborate at the same time I ask her to elaborate. She doesn’t get paid to analyze dreams.
I ask my therapist for water. She gives me a voice. I’ve already got her number. So to speak.
She says I am valuable. Repeat after me. I am vulnerable.