It used to be that when I was moved by something, I would write about it. If it was a movie or a song, I'd speak about it's brilliance, the ways it would move me, the whys and the how’s. I would let it carry me until I had something good to say, something honest and worthwhile. I can't do that now. That merry-go-round has stopped. What do you write about when nothing moves you? No emotional catastrophes to speak of. No monumental breakthroughs. Now, the only things I write about aren't worth mentioning. They hold no substance and no meaning. They don't speak to me in the way that my writing used too. Substance comes to mind. Producing nothing with substance. Writing now comes to me air tight and factory sealed, right out of the package. No taint or originality to make it worth something. Nothing but what it's good for. Reading. Reading and reading and writing to full up space and air and time and I fill it up. I fill up the pages. When I look back, I don't see any words. I see white space. I see blankness in the way a florescent light would pick up a blood spill. Stark, grimy. You'll never clean it off. You can scrub and scratch with your eraser until nothing's left but scarred bits of rubber. But even if you get it all off, the memory of what's written will still be there. It'll never be a fresh piece of paper again. It'll be used goods. Used. Bad writing. Bad substance.

Want to comment on this Prose? Sign up to Edit Red and you will be able to comment on Prose and get access to: Upload your own stories and poems, get readers and their feedback, promote your work...