Tell them I’ve just been show down, and the bullet’s in my heart. And it’s piercin through my soul. Feel my body getting cold.
I wanted to call 911. I wanted to cry, I did cry. I wanted to hurl this new aged do-hicky against the wall into a million pieces, all because it lost my words. Anyone whose ever worked on a paper can attest to my pain, but it’s just slightly different. As an artist, words, sentence structure, meaning, they are all fleeting and once down on paper, that is our way of remembering. I don’t know what happened. I’d been backing up this document since Monday. Even shutdown my computer for updates and there were my changes as soon as it rebooted. For some reason, an extra thumb placement, too many key strokes, something, caused all my hard work to disappear and all I could do was sit silently and let the tears fall where they may. Maybe secretly I was hoping my tears would cause and electrical short and like in the movies, my work would reappear, but alas, nothing. Someone please call 911. For a writer, losing words is worse than losing your wallet, or even your kid. At least you can cancel your credit cards and you really can call 911 if your kid is lost but who helps look for lost words. After all, they are just words. I let out a heavy sigh and wipe my raccoon eyes, staining my sleeve and stared in disgust and dispair as 2 nights of work just vanished, like a fart in the wind, but without any lingering remnants. I miss my words. I want my words back and I will continue to search for them, even it if is in vain. Maybe if I put up fliers and offer a reward. I love my words and want them to know I care. Someone please call 911. If this is the kind of love mama used to warm me about, man I’m in trouble. I’m in real big trouble.