Retrospective Lily

I stared at the cursor on my computer screen. More accurately, it stared at me.

No wonder that cursed cursor is shaped like an I… it blinks with the urgency of an actual eye.

Blink blink blink. What are you doing? Blink blink blink. No one cares what you think. Blink blink blink. You’re not very interesting. Pretty basic, actually. Blink blink blink. Can’t you think of something to say – anything? Blink blink blink.

I finally closed my own eyes to escape the all-seeing eye, the ever-taunting I.

I sighed in exasperation, letting the air out of my lungs slowly, then inhaling deeply, then exhaling again. I stretched my neck to the left, to the right, then around in circles. I raised my arms like an eagle about to take flight and felt my blood rushing to previously dormant limbs. After a minute had passed, I lowered my arms back to my sides.

Before I opened my eyes again, I whispered a prayer: God, send me a muse. Help me put words on the page. Amen.

Moments later, I took a sip of Raspberry Sherbet Olipop, and its saccharine flavor made every tastebud on my tongue tingle with surprise and delight.

Then, amazingly, my fingers began to tingle, too. They were itching to create, desperate to fulfill a mission. I put them on the keyboard; immediately, they went to work. The cursor moved forward at a break neck speed. Writer’s block be damned.

Hours passed in a haze. Words poured out of me like water from a bottomless pitcher. Even when mental fatigue kicked in, my fingers kept typing robotically, as if I wasn’t the real power source.

The next day, I woke up refreshed and optimistic. I sat down to my computer; the itch instantly returned. I opened my draft, and the flood gates opened, too. The next day – same thing. The next day – same thing. I was on a roll.

Whenever I finished a writing session, I would read back over my work. Paradoxically, it always felt foreign yet familiar, like a memory from an almost-forgotten dream…or something experienced while in a trance.

The cycle continued. Days turned into weeks, which turned into months. I was somehow exhausted and energized simultaneously.

In time, chapter after chapter after chapter got completed. Finally, I found myself typing the very last sentence. I then stepped back to admire my masterpiece.

The final product was akin to the portrait of Dorian Gray. It seemed to have shapeshifted on its own. It was a strange sensation seeing my creation mirrored back to me and not recognizing the reflection.

Metaphorically speaking, I was certainly the pitcher. But where did the water being poured out come from – my soul, my subconscious, or something else entirely?

I think God put a ghost writer in my head. And she is way more creative than me.

~