08.14.17 – Un-sharpened
Those fingers were fighting in quiet debate; whether to write the same sentence over and over again or to hold still in silence against repetition. They fidgeted in waves rounding out from pinky to forefinger and back in an antsy echo. There was a light tap upon the plastic caps of a keyboard eager to please its user, but no press ever made it in full. The muscles moved with a spasm; the notice was sent early and the action quickly suppressed so it became only a tic determined by the wrist and hand that held them so. He kept looking at those digits and imagining them working on their own to some delightful end. He presumed he gave them agency since his own facility couldn’t keep track of why work progress was jittered, stymied, and otherwise mal-aligned to a goal of completion. Those itching prints kept flossing in and out with tension and caressing the dimpled letters without any real commitment. He nodded in agreement.
The pen in the bucket drained slowly, ink drowning the nib in a pool barely covering its home. It’d settle, still and infinite in visible depth, but easy to steal. The air would reclaim the potential and turn it back to the dust gathered by imps and sprinkled on those who forget. There’d be a sneeze that held all the sonnets the world could ever need, releasing them in a single and exasperated breath. Here was its source withering with disuse. That awful author might spy it on a slow day, tugging at the metal wand but unaccustomed to making wishes with its power. He expected it to be easy, to spill all that waiting wonder and have it swarm into the proper and perfect configuration without much prodding. He was still approaching the manifest with loops and whorls like they were more important than the actual print; the hand would sort out those details and he’d obsess over the couture of each envy. Maybe that’s why he ended often with only a blank stare and a page just as confused.