forsyth | There's a Buddha on my Bed

And he's still got those clippers. That's how I first noticed him, the quiet rhythmic clip clip, like a prayer wheel just slightly off kilter. "You seem troubled, my son," he said.

"What, you're a priest now?" I asked.

"I'm just a mirror, upon which your own perceptions reflect," he said.

I put the keyboard down and spun my chair to face him. I'd gotten sick of wasting time and trying to think of things that didn't suck to write about. "Writer's block incarnate, then?"

"I thought you didn't believe in writer's block," he replied.

"I don't believe in you, either," I said, then a toenail spanged off the wall. "Okay, cut that out, you'll put somebody's eye out. Probably the cat's. How do you even have any toenails left?" I asked.

"They're metaphorical, just like the clippers. Well, actually, the clippers are the ones from your keychain, but don't worry, they're clean, literally."

"'You will make changes before winning,'" I quoted. Two can play the fortune cookie game.

"That's good advice," he said, "but obvious and self-fulfilling, like most fortune cookies. Vague enough to be whatever."

"Sorta like you," I said.

"So what are you angsting about?" he asked.

"Me? Nothing. I'm not a big fan of angst."

"Brooding, pouting, obsessing, depressing, whichever. And that's not really you, that's Fors."

I shrugged. "Same difference, sometimes. Not often enough, though, I think. Y'wanna know why I'm unhappy? Lots of reasons," I said, "for starters, I'm not happy with my life. I'm not accomplishing anything, not enjoying my job, not meeting anybody or doing anything or laughing or loving or living. I can't even finish a stupid fanfic, for fuck's sake."

He didn't say anything, just dug at some dead skin with that little whatever-it-is pick on the back of the clippers. I don't know what you call it. I waited. "No fortune cookie quote?" I asked, finally.

He looked up. "No, you already did that. Sounds about right. I do have one question, though."

"Yes?" I asked.

"If the fanfic's so stupid, why are you trying to finish it?"

"Because people liked it," I said, "Because I enjoyed writing it. Because some of the people who were enjoying it were the creators of the comics involved, which made my fanboy side go squee."

"Doesn't sound very stupid, then."
"Well... It's not really accomplishing anything, though. Not that I want to accomplish. Or things that need to be done."

"The best caravan is lost without a map," he said.

"What's that supposed to mean? Something about the reason I'm not getting anywhere is I don't know where I'm going? Or how I can't move toward what I want if I don't know what it is? Sheesh, I sound like somebody talking to Lassie."

"Pretty much," he said, "I just made that up to sound profound. The whole point of sayings and koans and whatnot is to make you realize the things yourself. Much more satisfying that way, and more lasting than if somebody just leads you to it."

"That's a cop-out," I said, "So how should I go about figuring out what I want and what to change, then?

But he was gone, toenail clippings and all, and I was talking to myself again. Right when he coulda given useful advice. Kinda like Gandalf, who was always gone when he coulda been useful. On the other hand, he'd helped me stall long enough for it to be too late to do anything, so I had an excuse not to work on anything else. Work in the morning and all that. I keep cruising through the rest of the week and looking forward to my days off now, I find that really disturbing. I know, shut the fuck up and write.

Tags: Mindscribbles, Rabbit Hole