Like a warning.
Like a soundless siren.
Bink. Blink. Blink.
Screaming at me.
I dream about it at night.
The endless blinking, calling out to me.
This thin little line.
Blink. Blink. Blink.
Like an I without the serifs.
Like an I who wants to write - who wants me to write - but can not without my help.
This I is me.
I want words. I want to put words together in beautiful lines.
We are in this together - I and the blinking I.
Maybe it is Kiesling's voice that calls out to me in the night?
"Hello. The blinking line is your friend. Why have you not written today?"
Make it move. Give it words. Allow it to work and help you.
The faster you type, the less it blinks.
Don't give it that chance unless you must.
Type your words.
Type without thinking.
Without backing down.
Hit publish before it can blink again.
Only then can you conquer Kiesling's line.
Only then can you turn off the siren and quiet your mind.
Only then can you write again.
*Thank you Charles A Kiesling, for inventing the blinking cursor.
It is both friend and foe to writers everywhere.