I burned through three candles over one snow-bound weekend this past winter typing weird, fun shit into Word for my Fiction Writing Class at MTSU. Consider the following meta-commentary on that process.
I have this round glass candle container on my desk. The candle has three wicks that burn brightly next to my MacBook Air. It’s an artistic setting, which gives my words on the page the extra layer of pathos needed to stir the soul. Then again, I’m not sure if it’s the tired metaphor of a dying flickering light, or if it’s the fake summertime-meadow smell that conflicts with the snow-covered melee taking place outside my office window. Even my rat terrier looks at me with contempt. The pug offers no support either. My next sentence trails off into the faux-simile abyss like a Sarah Palin word salad tossed into the air at a Trump fundraiser. The cat is on the mat. But the question is this: what constitutes the identity of the cat. The Ship of Theseus comes to mind. The pug is on the rug. That snaps. The snake is on the cake. The rat terrier is on the … Not working. Two wicks left. The light flickers dimly against a tired metaphor modified by an adverb. Fuck! Somebody just kill me now. The cold indifference, the light of knowledge—I’m just a prisoner of love. Okay, I got that out of the way… *runs back to the keyboard* Oh yeah, my tears fall down like rain. *sticks ice pick in own thigh—limps away*