Blackbirds and trying to be like Craig

From the roof, I can see the sea. Where the blue of the sky hangs over water during the day, there is a black deep as a hole in the night, something I wish I could reach through to the other side even though I know there won’t be anything else there until I have created it. Some days I want to reach anyway.
Those are the days when I can’t seem to move past the fact that I ate a sandwich for breakfast and then stared at the blank white space for an hour, for two hours, for three until the page started to swim like it already had the words trapped within it. Why couldn’t I find the right ones? They were already there somewhere.
When we had picnics in the part, my mother would pretend to scare away the ants because I was always so afraid of them. That stayed with me. Sometimes I cannot create anything because I am nervous there is a whole line of ants marching up and down the wall behind my head and I can’t see them only because I am not looking.
With my eyes closed, I can still smell the salt that drips from the air. I constantly feel like I am covered in a layer of it, but the sensation does not bother me as it once did. Instead of showering constantly, in a series of attempts to stay clear and focus on things besides the physicalness of me in the chair feeling coated in salt, I pretend that it doesn’t matter.
Like it doesn’t matter that I haven’t been able to get out these words before. Even though the message has been in my head for months and I keep trying and keep ending up nowhere or lost or lost in the middle of nowhere.
I like it best, even I am lost while driving my car, to find illegal places to make u-turns. Better, busy places where I can make three-point turns. This way, even though I am lost, I feel like I have accomplished something by getting away with it.
I always used to get caught. But once I started being less obvious, I got away with a lot more. It was a nice feeling.
The most used key on the board is the delete. Uncreating is almost as good as actually creating. I am saving the world from all the crap that it doesn’t need to see. So even if the page is blank at the end of the day, I’ve accomplished the filling of it and the erasing of what was making it full. That’s nearly like accomplishing two things when I set out only for one.
I used to spend a lot more time on the roof. Especially at night, when I could sneak up there without anyone knowing. I was allowed up there, if only because there was no one to stop me. But something about being up there, that much closer to the sky, without anyone really being able to pinpoint where I was made me feel free.
Someone once gave me a sleeve of cds that were nothing but mix upon mix of Elliott Smith songs. I liked each one better than the last until the last one. Then I started to feel sad and thought about the way he had killed himself and wondered if the person who had given me the cds was trying to tell me something either about myself or about herself. I never asked; actually, I never saw her again.
The things I keep coming back to are this same file in the computer, the way the salt clings to me and the air, the ants my mother is no longer here to scare off, fear itself, and the way the delete key has started to wear away in the middle from all the times I’v