30 minutes ‘til it happens. 30 minutes before my whole world collapses and chaos begins. 30 minutes until work.
God, I’m not gonna make it. Trapped in this white-walled cell of infinite pain and anguish and…oh look, I have windows. This cell’s gots windows. And…a guitar. And I’m lying in a bed. A super comfy one with at least 17 flannelled blankets. Oh yeah, it’s just my room.
Anyway, trapped in this white-walled cell, 30 minutes to destination, before my entire world implodes, before starry meteorites fall from the ceiling, before angry bubbly lava creeps up from the floorboards. I won’t make it. I’m gonna make it. I have to make it.
It’s a jungle out there, a real Mogli’s playground. Speeding apparatuses traveling upwards of 35 miles per hour, streets crowded with focused college kids parading down a rock-hard length of cold, unforgiving length of concrete known as a sidewalk, furry, yellow-eyed creatures wandering about with little dingle-bells around their necks, looking to be petted, or worse, fed. Soo dangerous.
20 minutes left. Two hundred words deep. Where do I go from here? I could get mugged, I could get robbed, I might trip on myself, then I’ll sob. I might get knocked off my feet by a strong breeze. I could get the sun in my eyes and go blind. What if I sneeze on myself and don’t have a tissue? It’s a long walk. People. People everywhere on the street. I might make eye contact. Then what? Instant awkwardness. It’s a dangerous world out there, the walk to work. I just hope I survive.
16 minutes. I can do it. Look, you’re enamored by my kooky descriptions. Keep reading. Don’t stop reading. What if I don’t make it? The piles of blankets on the bed come alive and attack me, jumping all over my body and forcing me back into a chamber of warmth and laziness. I would never make it. The music on the laptop blares too loud and I’m distracted and it moves me to skip work and run around the park like an emotion-driven movie character on one last desperate run to save the woman he loves. It could happen. Don’t say it won’t.
I might fall down the steps and spill out into the kitchen, where a luscious plate of chocolate chip cookies greets me. I don’t know where the cookies came from but they’re there. How are cookies made anyway? I’ve never seen ingredients mate, but I’m sure it’s a sight. I’m forced to abandon everything and eat the delicious cookies, and by the time I smear the chocolate from my lips and drain a gallon of milk I’m twenty minutes late for work and puking on myself. Because, well, I just drank a gallon of milk from a German beer boot and that never goes over well with the stomach.
11 minutes. I won’t make it. This is nonsense. Impractical. Illogical. Writing exercise. Exercise is good for the soul, unless you’re feeling lazy, then it’s terrible for everything. Can’t make it. The street’s too dangerous. I’ll have to skip work.
What if there’s a lonely man playing the trumpet on the street and that’s all he’s got in life and it’s beautiful and out of the pure compassion in my heart I’m breathtakingly stopped in my tracks, and I sit, and we have a conversation and then I give him the sandwich I was going to eat at work. What if that happens? Sounds like a terrible tragedy.
What if in these next 8 minutes I abandon everything I’ve written just because it makes no sense and throw it all away. Does love make sense? Do you throw that way? Chyea. Let’s not get cheesy.
8 MINUTES. I’ll make it. I’m the man. I can write anything in 8 minutes. I’ll write an 8 page paper in 8 minutes black-out drunk with a Spider Monkey climbing up my shoulders and still finish it. I can do it. No, I can’t. Look at me. I don’t even have shoes on yet. Do you know how long it takes to put shoes on? A long time when you’re born without opposable thumbs.
6 Minutes. Here it comes. The room’s gonna come to live any minute now and strangle the creativity out of me. Street’s probably crowded with prostitutes and street hustlers. *Quick look out the window* Sunshine, wispy clouds, a politely inviting street wishing me to travel upon it’s glorious asphalt. Definitely too dangerous.
Gotta find a picture. Quick, take a selfie. Selfie’s are great in these situations. Need title. Need to post. Need speed. Must fight, must crow, must get bangarang. Quick, just post a nostalgic clip from an awesome movie. Movies are great for short, generationally degenerate attention spans.
Whoo, I made it. There’s something to hold you over.
IMAGINATION. That’s what’s up.