…reality bites

The process of writing is a unique experience. I have always envisioned the inveterate author sitting before a desk, in cardigan and tweed, leaning back amongst leather in a contemplative pose, eyes vague and distant, elbow on armrest and chin in hand, waiting to record the details of each brilliant thought.

In my reality, the pathetic writer is usually clothed in contraband that was either stumbled upon or wandered by. Pajamas hang below the hem of the decade-old sweat shirt with “Buy two, get me free” on the front. I have cadged a pair of circa 1990 stirrup pants, not ratty enough to be thrown out, but not fit for public consumption either, and on my feet are one yellow and one green sock. These are worn primarily because they are the same size and because they have each languished mate-less for eons in the sock box and have earned some time out.

At some point in the day, desperation adds ankle-high boots to the ensemble, and I’ve felt no equal nor pressing reason to remove them, so here I sit, teetering uncomfortably on the bottom step of a three-tiered stool whose top step is currently being used by a kindergartener to storm the castle walls.

In my twin role as dueling despot and plagued penman, I flail a sword with one hand and ruthlessly disembowel my journal, page by page, with the other.

“Somehow,” I muse thoughtfully, with the chin in the hand and elbow on the knee, “this is not what I envisioned.”

Reality Bite: It’s your delusion. If you don’t like it, change it.

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