1.16 a.m.
Screen, blank. Stare. Tears. Blink, twice. Home, silent. Headphones, blaring.
You should sleep.
Maybe.
You should lie down and continue tomorrow.
Maybe.
What’s the point working on a piece only you see everyday?
No one might enjoy it. In fact, you could be hated for it.
There is a chance it will be nothing like the picture in your mind.
This is not the first time you’ve felt deleted from history. Probably won’t be the last.
“I’d better be deleted than not to have existed”.
So, you sit up. Crank up the volume . Type.
No one got rich lazy. Plus, I am at the prime of my life.
My future self would never forgive me if I gave up now.
I won’t.
I can’t.
We can’t give up now.