I use’ta could write some, but not no more, I can spell, sure, but what good’s that for.
I’m tired and bored, yet I cannot sleep, and knowing just how fast the time will come for my alarm to sound, here I am still sitting at my desk writing my boredom onto nothing. That’s what writing has become, no more paper, pens, and pencils, just nothing, literally slightly more than a figment of my imagination. This document I color with pale lettering, a document that is nothing but a cleverly disguised series of I’s and O’s. It’s nice to know that my trash can won’t be full of failed attempts, that my desk won’t have tiny shreds of my pencil sharpenings, and most of all that my hand won’t hurt after only this much writing from writer’s cramp. But what do I do with it? That I do not know.
I could illuminate my dark imagination with some colorful story about anything from an extremely taboo dream that taunted me so seductively this morning as I woke, to something so simple as the way this documents light on my screen is glaring in my eyes. It makes no difference really, because my intentions do not include any publication of this, my ambiguous saga.
Perhaps I need a hobby to fill my time, or maybe I need only to get reacquainted with the many I’ve abandoned this year. It’s been bothering my soul lately, that I cannot even sustain interest in the things that I enjoy most, yet my childhood dreams and aspirations are coming back to me so clear, so fresh and wanton, that I could paint them onto a canvas of steel and pixels without so much as an opening of an eye.
It’s been suggested that I should figure this dilemma out, and soon, yet the thought of the effort entailed simply wears me out. I digress, as they say, and fall into the fold of emptiness that has become my mind. And sooner rather than later I hope to gain some perspective into what my brain has in store for me, for as this second ticks away, so seems that another word, or meaning, or dream or idea, fades into the dark, dark sky just past my sill.
Decades past have now taught me about life and the ill fates of many unknown, perhaps too well as they’re becoming my own. It doesn’t dawn the way it used to, and nothing shines so bright, if not for the love of my life, I think I’d slumber on, and on. Though to think of her living without those tedious nothings I have to teach through her next few years, breaks me into as many tears as missing her first one and one half. But it doesn’t suit to dwell on things past, only to move on and carry this load to a day so incredibly vast.
On I must now go, without a single glance to my rear, and a lesson I must learn, though the teacher isn’t yet here.