The Jungle

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My computer screen stares back at me, waiting for me to type something, anything. The blank white surface is the only thing illuminating this pitch black room. The inescapable white glow is so brilliant, my pupils feel as if they are dancing in circles, trying to escape an inevitable defeat. My detrimental characteristic of procrastination has once again imprisoned me to this same vexatious chair.
I carefully study each item around me, in a desperate hope that one of them will expatiate words of inspiration to my desolate mind. A zoo has somehow formed in the crackled corner of this diminutive confinement. The alligator, the bunny, the dog. I can feel my childhood friends gazing at me through glossy plastic eyes. Collecting feculence and grime without objection, they wait serenely for the day they won’t be forgotten.
The floor is like a wild South American jungle, a serpent vacuum awaiting any slight progression. The expired wrapping paper is crumpled in the center of the room like rotten logs who failed to survive the variable conditions. The weary computer hums annoyingly in my ear drums as if it were concealing thousands of perturbed and enraged cicadas.
A soft maple desk lies undiscoverable beneath suffocating piles of paper refusing to let it catch a breath. Another flaw is revealed through the cascading disarray of adages I refuse to abandon. The scribbled words captivate the vacant burrows of my soul. They are a momentary band-aid to conceal scars from the past, and an ephemeral blindfold to mask the qualms of my future.





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