Fear hangs out with the letters on my keyboard among the dust clusters and granola bar crumbs.
Actually, fear appears as a red herring, a fishy character that presumably kills off my blog post. But I know the real perpetrator, Perfectionism.
The Perfectionist evil doer hijacks my brain, duct tapes my arms to the chair, and shoves a Cashmere sock in my mouth.
Bound and gagged, I’m forced to stare at a white screen with a gray border, not boarder, although Gray never checks out, unlike my distant cousin Focus.
At least, I don’t have to make Gray breakfast or change the linens on the bed. How could I with my hands duct taped to a chair?
I just wish Gray and White weren’t on the same page. Gray darkens the psyche and White never shimmers like a high-gloss shine.
Whose idea was it anyway to align a shady squatter with a faded screen icon.
Both hold inspiration prisoner in a dark subterranean room, while Perfectionism rewrites the sentences.
“Keep your damn hands off my words,” I say telepathically.
Then add, “You won’t get away with this. You meddling bitch.”
And she didn’t.
Unbeknown to my restrained right brain, an anonymous tip from a desktop informant alerted the literary authorities of my inspiration’s incarceration.
The SWAT team arrived, smacked the evils doers with the taskbar then removed the duct tape from my arms.
I opened my eyes to a normal window view with an expanse of white space to the right.
Thanks a lot, SWAT.
You saved me from perimeter torture and gray and white page border blight.