Kicking the Rust Off

#2:
How far was he prepared to go to keep this secret? Lawrence asked himself. Hadn't he already caused enough damage? Ah, so there was a voice after all. Though it bore a striking resemblance to Dr. Khadim, the brilliant biochemist from so long ago, Lawrence knew Khadim was gone. Long gone. He had no choice really.Had Khadim lived, he would have certainly told the world the truth by now. Then Lawrence would go down in the history books alongside Hussein, Hilter, and the other modern monsters. Was he a monster? Dr. Khadim said quickly yes.Lawrence pushed him aside and sighed deeply. He supposed so. Men always, always abused their power. But wasn't that the very nature of man? Lawrence decided it was.And rationalized his ten-year old decision to condemn millions of people to death into a pocket-fattening strategy, that any man in power would have come to. He desperately wished he could blame this on someone else, but it had been his own baby. He would bear this burden. If he had to. If worse came to worse. Until that time, he would, like any other powerful man in trouble, deny and distract until they either bought or forgot it. It was all anyone could do at this point. After all, it was a little too late for apologies.


(in the middle of this, I almost heard the gears click. As soon as I became conscious of them, I lost them)

A new approach

#1
When the idea first came to him, it, like all the others, seemed brilliant. Increase profits, and decrease spending. There were no small voices in his head telling him that this my come back to bite him. In fact, looking back now, he wasn't sure he was equipped with a conscious. He had never heard those voices in his head. They had always come from The Board. They had faces, names, paychecks, and most were replaceable as a paperclip. Actually, he didn't think he'd ever been second-guessed or questioned. Maybe he should have been. Maybe if questions were asked, and consequences were assesed, Lawrence Lathell would not be sitting here now, a burden of unimaginable proportions sitting on his desk, staring right up at him, through him.


A little tiny bit at a time. That's how I'm going to write this and overcome this block.

On Writer's Block

I can't breathe. I'm drowning in the deepest waters. Every day that passes just increases the immense pressure from the little voice in my head. It occurs to me that 'little' is a not a very good descriptive term because her voice is loud. She makes my stomach ache, she pounds my head into the cement floor, she runs through my brains filing system and throws my potential ideas into the air. She's ruthless, and she will not let up. Meanwhile, I keep slipping further and further under this sea of nothingness. An outstretched hand blindly reaching for just one great idea.

That's what it feels like to have my crippling writers block. Just one day of not feeling inclined to write will do this to me. Because it inevitably snowballs. Until it's been this long. Creativity is born of sadness, right? Or something to that effect. If you are happy, there is nothing to want and the struggle ends. Must I be unhappy to want to write? No. I already know the answer to that. But writing it down does help me figure out my problems. Maybe I'll create a favicon for this page. Get my mind off these terrible thoughts.