The Importance of Possession


(The chapter title came after the body of the writing, FYI) [Yes, I also learned to use italics]

He sat at his computer, with a cherry coke to his right, and settled in to communicate the truth to himself as best he could. He started making typos as he wrote, which discouraged him, but did not stop him. This is who he was now, trying to be free of the thoughts that he had hidden for so long.

The words came at an alarming pace, and he thought he might never stop writing again. He wanted to see what he was thinking, and not what the cruel world around him was thinking. He was ready to engage in self-pity, which criticism had come to him all too willingly. There was a song on his headset which didn’t really interest him, but he listened anyway. It was perhaps a love song, but he didn’t care for those stories anymore. It asked him why it would make him wait, but it didn’t. He was ignoring the cues around him that he was used to hearing, and he was alone today.

After remembering to create a space at the beginning of a new paragraph, he pondered the mouse to his left. He used to have two pet mice, of which lived a horrible life. Two male mice, destined to fight to the death in a makeshift aquarium cage they lived in without enough love and with plenty of regret. Then the thought of his fire-bellied newt, dead without food for weeks. He really was a horrible person, always indulgent, and he couldn’t bring himself to feel guilty any longer. The times had changed, he hoped, he thought he had become a better person. Had he really? He mused that the song was speaking to him still, but remembered that it was recorded and not selected for him but perhaps for someone else. He liked to believe the world revolved around him. The playlist was “Toronto summer” without the capital letter T. Cuss words, and talk of video games and skating. Maybe it was skateboarding. He was having trouble keeping up these days. That’s what he feared the most, that world was passing by him faster than anyone else. He wondered if anyone would ever read his writings. Would Bonnie be someone he could trust? Would he ever come out of his shell, and own up to the mistakes. Where was he going to start.

He was a generally square cut shape, a little portly in his thirties, but God had done him well. He didn’t do his own body justice. He had abused privledge on every accord, not that he could describe it. He knew people lied, but only because he lied to himself. He had thought he was someone special, and he likes to believe that it would change. Perhaps it would. He struggled to spell today. They prescribed him a medication that is used to treat people with schizophrenia and the depressive phases of bipolar disorder. He knew they believed it as working, but he still refused to believe in it. To believe again would take more energy than he had after the trouble that he had not experienced in not taking it. It was all a perspective thing, really, he knew that nobody would ever see the writings and the story he told, so he wondered if he would ever be able to confess the things that really bothered him. He had purchased a box of cigarettes tonight without a single soul to bum one off him tonight. He had had a beer for seven sixty and had thought somehow it should only be four dollars. It wasn’t Monday. It was Thursday, and he still knew that. He heard the song, although new, confess an addiction and a love for a person that may not exist. Why was he writing. He struggled to compose himself, the eyes grew tired. He used to have an ability, an ability to connect to anyone, and now he felt only like he was a bother to the world.

The day hadn’t started well, with the problems of the lifetime prior still on his shoulders over his head as he awoke well overslept. He dodged a bullet, perhaps, but not a real bullet. He didn’t want to wake up. He hated waking up because the energy required to face the day was rough. He always expected the worst, because he was used to permitting it. He didn’t have the energy to say no anymore. The emotions were still coming and going faster than ever, and he wondered which emotion he was feeling now. He would listen to the rain in his room and feel a warm, calm feeling of safety, so when he listened to the rain on the headset earlier on, he could appreciate the rain earlier in the day. He had stopped in at a local café, where he struggled now to remember what he ordered. Energy was always abound, and even now as the music communicated to him that the sorrow was not just his, he still didn’t believe it. What message could he convey today to inspire, to lead, to instill hope. None. He wasn’t suicidal, despite their best efforts to have him confess it. He didn’t want to return the facilities, despite it being a very enjoyable time. His thoughts were all he had, and they wanted to take them from him, he wondered. He was running out of time, he was running out of money, and he was running out of patience.

After another paragraph break, he realized the book had started with no real purpose. Books or articles, papers or other texts, are usually started in contemporary arts with a perspective shift. His perspective hadn’t shifted. He wanted to remain the same, and he had written about this in an article prior to the one being read now by a stranger he knew, or possibly didn’t know. He still had to pay his taxes, like anyone else, and had to eat, shit, sleep and work. He was out of work right now, and he caught a glimmer of his body’s workings coming on, but suppressed it. They told him only five thousand words could be used in an average person’s working vocabulary, and he had believed it. He wondered if the article he was writing only contained these five thousand words. And he was getting angry at the computer for not cooperating with his flow of words. He was writing in a business application, traditionally, and should have been working on something for his inquiry into new work. He could see the errors pointed out to him above, but he ignored them for the time being and corrected the mistake he made moments prior.

He was losing steam, and losing hope, piece by piece. He didn’t know what hope was, or whether it really was perpetual, as it had been communicated to him once. He thought of a journal, or a book, he couldn’t really bring himself to admit his woes to anyone. He lacked a trust in the truest things, and only wanted the misery that brought about cathartic release. Perhaps the emotion of sadness.

He glanced upwards, seeing the words above, and realized they could be interpreted in duplicity. So what would he write next. What would he write about? Right. He realized he was not perfect, and was making mistakes as he went. Could he write a book about writing, never having written one himself? There is no miraculous recovery today, no steam winded befalling of words. He didn’t even know what that meant. After ignoring the word he hated, he continued onwards. The pages were starting to fill, despite his best attempts to ignore it. He wasn’t really ignoring it. He was struggling to breathe at times, coughing intermittently, and would have rather done something more productive by his own perfect standards. He thought, maybe a better font, maybe a new paragraph. When would he give in and accept that the work he is producing is not going to be perfect for him. He had to write. He had to hear the tapping on the keyboard, the computer keyboard he used, of which he didn’t care to look and see what model it was; after struggling to find the semicolon and letting autocorrect do its magic, he recalled seeing that it was an acer. Acer, yeah, what a computer. He had bought it on his line of credit when his father had disconnected him from the internet a decade ago. This is why he struggled with money. He was trying to buy his way around his problems. The irony was that he last held a job, as a Buyer. He let the sentence correct itself for him.

Today he decided he was going to remember that Today doesn’t even exist. The only moment is now, and the Beatles he thought were on the playlist, now. What else could he say. He didn’t want to admit anything. Nobody was admitting anything personal anymore. Nobody was offering their personal side to him, was it because he had no integrity (trust) that he wondered, after seeing the sentence form. He had written a lot today, a lot of things that he already regretted. He didn’t know where the work would go. Is it even work, when you aren’t really planning to publish anything? The doctor suggested a blog. There’s the “but”, the sign of an excuse. He wanted to write, but, maybe he would publish his time. He was always missing out on opportunities. Not this time. He wanted to take the time to put, somehow, his way of thinking down into words. It wasn’t really words, it was just thoughts. He had talked to his doctor today and confirmed that typing and writing were expressing thoughts, but could talking be the same? He was listening to a song saying that it was late at night, and that he held on tight. Things were always happening to him, all the time, and the more he focused, the more he missed out on the other things. He couldn’t hold it in forever.

He noticed he skipped a paragraph break above, and that he really shouldn’t be a writer at all. There is no perfect way to write a piece, he guessed, and let it slide. He wanted the editors to exist, like he had been before. A grammar natzi (sp, or sik? Or sick) that he had been outed as once. Outted had two T’s, but it seems that the program didn’t want to let him write it that way. He guessed he must have been wrong.

The letter T had special significance to him, as it was almost like a cross, or a joint, or a brace. Letters all had meanings; the letter H was a bridge, the letter A was a compass. The words made sense as he wrote, but he stopped noticing the letters themselves. The font was basic, probably Calibri, the particular form of type that the business world had recently adapted. A sans sheriff font, he remembered, and the old setting, and the setting for books was Times New Roman, or some other Sheriff font. He thought for a second and realized the word was probably not Sheriff. He let it slide, another but almost inserted.

There were a lot of settings in the program to change the style, the look, the typography of the words. He understood most of them, but not their actual application. He used italics sometimes when he wanted to make letters look different from others, and he used bold when he wanted to show something as outstanding compared to the rest of the text. Superscript and subscript were used in scientific papers requiring endnotes, or footnotes, he thought he recalled. They could have other uses, like the letter O in lowercase superscripted to denote the celcius temperature reading – he could use a hyphen to separate related text that would further implicate his point.

He was a Canadian, first generation, as his parents were mostly European in decent. For a second he realized that his father was a Canadian born too, and he realized he had started to reveal something about himself. He probably should save the work, or does it autosave, he guessed that the recovery feature would save him in the event of a power outage that would not affect him as he was writing on a laptop.

Awhile not even looking at the keyboard, he was reviewing the other symbols at the top of ths creen. He say the options for strikethrough (he cheated, he looked back, strikethrough was a long word), and also columns, indents (typo made there) and underline. He didn’t want to use all these options – changing to a hyphen, he wanted to denote that this was not a business report. This was his personal communication to an entity that would maybe never read the book. Or perhaps, it was his style, his in the moment feeling of what he was experiencing, as he had been taught to live.

After seeing the grammar error at the beginning of the last paragraph, he continued to write. He wanted to “emphasize” something, as the program would allow with a form of italics and bolding, it appeared in the ribbon above, but he realized that the quotation marks would probably denote someone (not something) speaking aloud. He barely spoke aloud, so he decided to refrain from using them.

After passing wind, he continued on. Would the green marks point out an irrelevance to other text, or would he just keep guessing. He was taking some new medication (had he mentioned this before) that might help him with his thoughts. Was it really? Was it helping him communicate in “real life” or ‘real life’ or REAL LIFE, after the comma he realized autocorrect might really be helpful. Laughing, but not “IRL” he said that really, it takes a lot of the pay out of editors cheques, he supposed.

What page was he on now? He remembered to use an indent this time. He decided it was time to open that cherry coke.

Oh, and to save the document.


There were so many mistakes in the previous paragraph that he decided to ignore them and to write another. First of all, the cherry coke was to his left, not his write. Or was it right. He seemed to be making more mistakes now.

Where was the next part going to begin? Behind? How could he fight this demon known as autocorrect. Maybe he should learn to work for autocorrect. Maybe he should start writing on his phone, so that he could realize less how poor he was at typing these days. He didn’t really follow the typical “hands on home keys” approach, but the style he used mostly worked for him. He was comfortable with the computer, and he decided to let the computer do some of the work.

An extra space for no reason to denote a break in chapter, or a pause, perhaps. He didn’t like where the errors were going now. He thought he should’ve titled the book along the lines of… hmmm…. “Faught-a-correct” or maybe it would be “Faught-o-correct”. Would it be clever? Could the writing really amount to anything without a little bit of sustencance? Is that even a word? Hasn’t he read about his break of grammar being accepted in society times previous in allt hre readings he’d done? He let the errors come,a nd he shastrted making them even more. He didn’t want the book to change, but he knew when he was making a mistake, most of the time. He would go back and correct the writing when he SAW it was WRONG, but it was frustrating him because he would fix his own mistakes and autocorrect would beat him too it causing him to make even more mistakes.


It was time to publish. This had to be said. It was great when applied to people who were learning to use a phone keyboard, perhaps, and he wondered if they were no longer teaching typing the same way in schools. Could the computer delete any slower? He was losing steam.

It was time to quit while he was ahead. If he was even ahead.


A short ode to the autocorrect Gods.

“Tumtultuous ly true is the path that follows he would lays the spirit to rest unpon the keyboard”