Awful.
Bitter.
Conquering.
Cruel.
The Internet.
Its vicious claws mold your mind.
"Come to me."
I'm motioned instinctively;
the worst part is that you can't hear it, nor see its creeping penetration to your thoughts.
Bling!
Ding!
Clockwork.
Your hands move automatically,
and you can't help but wince.
"Just stop!"
"Hide your phone!"
"Turn everything off!"
Your mind chants to you,
trying to break the barrier.
The phone simply rests in the blue mini drawer after sitting for barely a few minutes.
My fingers tap my thigh;
I shuffle my fingers and amble to my room wearily.
What was I going to grab?
The pencil sits by my leather-bound journal, yearning to be touched,
embraced,
at least glanced at for a moment.
I left my room scratching my head and paced to the blue mini drawer,
gripping the little defined handle's knob,
finally pressing the small button near the top edge of the screen.
Thoughtlessly, I slid my finger, opening the bright screen into a meaningless world that only wished to prey on my insecurities.
Tap!
Tap!
Tap!
Whoosh!
Fast race?
Tap dancing, hm?
Small giggles escape my lips at even the slightest idea as my hand seemed to attach itself to the fast-paced pecking at the device.
I shook my head.
Maybe I can just message others about writing instead?
I frown at the screen and log off.
3 a.m.
I'll write at 3:30 a.m.
Minutes, hours, disappear as the ticking hands of the clock cackled in the distance.
4 a.m.
Dropping,
blood-shot eyes.
A headache consumes any tiny thought of a next activity.
I fell on my red bed.
I press my fingertips to my forehead,
curled up one leg,
resting the other,
forming a complex shape of the blanket.
I set my journal on its normal platform of the bookshelf, collecting dust.
My eyes close as I let go of my pencil from my index finger and ring finger.
Smack!
