Self-Portrait

The subject touches each of his index fingers to the F and J keys, and begins. His eyes are wavering, first the screen, then the keys. He has impulses to spell out certain words with his eyes, so he looks down-I M P U L S E S with speed. He has seen it and is satisfied. He pauses for knew thoughts and moves on. His right thumb controls the space bar in it's battle with the left. He tucks his elbows close, the sleeves of his brown t-shirt squeeze in his armpits and his hands shine brown like warm biscuits under the reading light. He looks at the words. He erases some. He types more. He takes note of how far to the front of his chair he is sitting, his face almost directly over his hands, his neck stiffened to keep his eyes on the middle of the screen. His writing might be better if he would relax, he thinks, and slumps, feeling instantly uncomfortable with slouching, laziness and poor posture. He has not thought about writing in fifteen seconds. His unshaven face itches, and his right hand soothes it. The subject takes a deep breath and puts his left elbow on the desk. The muscles in his shoulders tense and relax visibly through his shirt as they always do when he's decided to write something he deems meaningful. He looks at the words. The paragraph has come alive in his pupils. "Stiffened, satisfied." The adolescent in him smiles. If it were up to him, this is how everyone would see him. His smile leaves. He hasn't thought about writing in twenty-five seconds. He looks at the words. His hands are suspended and his eyes are intent. He is thinking about writing.