The blinking cursor does what a blinking cursor does. It blinks.
It appears to slow down, then speed up. As though time has compressed and expanded in the exact moment.
The blinking cursor reminds me of the empty page—an emblem of doom and despair or bristling with potentiality.
The white void. Both thrilling and nihilistic at the same time. Despair and delight.
I write to free myself from the conditioned cage. Write to speak the unspoken. Talk about the unknowable.
The blinking cursor. Hypnotic. Rhythmic. Metronome beats. There it is.
My eye gets drawn down to it, like an addict fixating on the hit in front of them. It taunts and teases.
Whatcha gonna do fucker? You got it in yer?
A haunting, ghostly reminder of all the literary aristocracy that turns writing into a class system.
The blinking cursor. It might as well be a rubber, an eraser—a starting gun to chaos.