The Cursor


The cursor waits for the words to pour out of my fingers. Does it think of them as its own? Or is just a stupid servant waiting for an opportunity to serve the master? Am I the master? Do I dare to call myself that? Or am I deluding myself into believing that the words are mine; that they are conceived in my brain? What if this is all just a dream? What if I am the cursor? What does that  say about the hands that I am serving? For all I know, I could be a fictional character and a real person could actually be reading about me.

Now the real question:  Does  it really matter? Who cares?!


Every footstep that I take seems to crumble the ground beneath me. My footing wavers. I sway and there is nothing to which I can hold on to.

Every breath that I take reminds me that the air I breathe is poisonous. It chokes me and blurs my vision.

Every heartbeat is a warning that it cannot go on much longer.

Every night my empty bed rubs my loneliness to my face. 

I crawl on this wide world without balance, without breath, without love towards my death that is somewhere out there.

Whitman was right.

Someone has “stopped somewhere waiting” for me.