The Curse of the Creative Mind
gold borrowed from Disney, silver spun by Blacklabel

et tu, Narcissus?

Listen carefully to what I am about to tell you. I don't have much time and what time I do have is, even now, slipping away like the sands in the hourglass on my desk. The timepiece, all tarnished brass and cloudy glass, isn't mine. I do not know how it got there—there being the spot beside my smoldering pot of incense—but I do have my suspicions, for you see what I wanted to tell you is that I'm—

It's so quiet in here. It's too quiet. It's the kind of quiet where usually stirs something secret. But as I glance about the lamplit room I see nothing out of the ordinary. The candles are burning steady, the flames not flickering. There is not one volume out of place on the bookshelf and all of the furniture is still. Nothing is unsettled… except me. I listen intently and upon hearing nothing—no echoes nor whispers, not a single breath—I breathe a sigh of relief.

What I wanted to tell you is that I'm cursed.

There is and has been, for quite some time mind you, a pirate stuck in my head. When I say stuck in my head, I don't mean that there's a wee man clodding around in seaboots about the inner workings of my skull, nor scampering up my brainstem. No, there is no miniature scoundrel climbing my cerebral rigging, but I daresay I think it would be far less painful than the grievous situation I find myself in. Far less irritating, far less infuriating—

"Really," interrupts the pirate, "I think you're edging into hysterics there, missy."

I jump. But I shouldn't be so startled. He never really goes very far from me, this pirate called Jack Sparrow—

"Captain," he says, cutting me off right here and now, "that's Captain Jack Sparrow." He winces, and takes a tentative step toward me, face twisting with dismay. "Must I really remind you once again?"

No, I find myself thinking in type, certainly you should not have to remind me. Afterall, it's been how many times—

"Lost count at three hundred thirty three," Jack puts in nonchalantly, though he looks most unimpressed with me at the moment. "And that was pages ago."

—that you've corrected me, chastised me, been a complete imbecile on count of it?

Jack winces again, this time looking much aggrieved. "I hardly think the matter necessitates name calling, love."

Which brings me to what I meant, exactly, by having said that I have a pirate stuck in my head. It is as if the pirate is able to hear what I'm writing when I'm writing it. I assure any who are reading this that he knows what is being typed right—

"Now."

As most can imagine, this particular facet of storywriting is frightfully frustrating. It is indeed one thing to pen characters into their respective places in a story, but completely another to be harrassed, harangued, and—

"Don't exactly recall having ever… harangued you." Jack Sparrow sweeps a hand in the air and shrugs a bit. "Harped upon, perhaps."

Simply put, it's become quite a problem.

"Well now," says Captain Jack Sparrow, flourishing a bit to show off all his flutter and shine, "that, my dear Blacklabel, is a matter of perspective."

There is no doubt in my mind that somehow, someway… I was cursed.