Circles

He thought that maybe if he scrubbed his toilet with all the fervor of an obsessive compulsive germaphobe, grand inspiration might be conjured by the alluring combination of cleaning products.

Small, aimless circles.

The floorboard creaked with every anguished step as he paced about his sparse little bungalow. Smoke hung in every room; every corner, nook and cranny. These small, aimless circles always lead him to the same spot, staring at his computer screen, as blank as his gaze. He took (another) drink, and paced about some more, searching his mind for something—anything.

Distractions didn’t work. He thought that maybe if he scrubbed his toilet with all the fervor of an obsessive compulsive germaphobe, grand inspiration might be conjured by the alluring combination of cleaning products.

No dice.

He sighed heavily, and went to the kitchen to fix (another) drink. His brain was quickly becoming a very random modern jazz solo with no structure outside of beginnings and ends.

It was all just noise at this point.

He sat down at his desk and put his hands on the keyboard, hoping they might do something on their own, but they merely sat quietly, waiting for instructions.

Perhaps, he thought, he should just give up. Maybe he had no right even trying. Maybe this wasn’t why he was here. He began to think about khaki trousers and golf shirts. He tried to imagine himself as that guy.

As someone else entirely.

He entertained the notion for a bit, tickled at first by the thought of such normalcy. He took (another) drink and stood up, still thinking about big houses, big cars and big families. What if he was wrong this whole time? What if he were really put on this earth to be an accountant? What if everything he had dedicated his life to was mere folly?

“Maybe this is why there’s no longer a Kurt Cobain,” he thought quietly.

Every ashtray sat full of half-smoked butts extinguished by neglect. Each abandoned smoke inspired another as he paced aimlessly about the bungalow in search of something that was not there.

No matter where he looked, all he found was smoke.

This had been going on for weeks now, these small circles through the house. The heavy sighs and blank pages staring up at him, shaking a bony finger in his general direction.

Outside, dogs barked and lawn mowers roared. Birds sang, people walked and life progressed. He thought about joining them, for a brief moment before resuming his small, aimless circles.

He took (another) drink and sat back down.

He didn’t look good in khaki anyway.

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