It's 3:10 and I cannot sleep. Coffee makes for bad night caps, and for some reason the smell reminds me of the taste of cigarettes. I conceive of the tar in my lungs from yester-year's smokes creeping up onto tongue's tip, like the blob from a bad 1950's science fiction movie. I'm unsure of its intent, either to consume every living thing, or give me bad breath, either way it's a nuisance.
I cannot tell how I am "doing" as they say.
If I were to answer the question, "How are you doing?"
I might respond, "I am doing it well enough."
"Doing what?" one might ask.
"Typing," I would whisper, eyebrows lifted so as to make the question's absurdity apparent.
I cannot tell what sort of tone I am writing in; I would imagine this is how I would speak if I were a writer. Alas, I am not a writer, and if I were, I said I wouldn't tell what tone I'm writing in. Whatever it is, it is different, refreshing in the most literal sense, for it is not fresh, but is a renewal of something; it reminds me of how much I loved literature in middle school...and most of high school...throw in a smidge of college.
I imagine tonight I might write of many things: of the dances that stars perform on moonless nights, the dreams that drift about ocean depths, friends who are like sculptors, the appearance and smell and taste and color of my dinner, divine paradoxes, brutal truths sprinkled with hope, and all manner of things that would be spread around with ink like a horrible puzzle with pieces from another box. I imagine all sorts of things, but none ever occur. Perhaps I live looking to some exciting future in my imagination, but the part of me attached to reality expects sheer boredom from everyone and everything. I wonder where such a part exists...hmm. What nonsense.
I am, for lack of a better word, bored. And now even my imagination has become completely internalized, rarely shared, rarely let out to play. As a result it is a slothful creature, only responding to increasing amounts of ridiculous conditions or overt stimulation from others. My boredom however prevents the latter, and the former is by its nature, rare.
Perhaps I am perpetually operating in some kind of defense mechanism, years of harnessing and perfecting it, down to a "science" as we say -- as if I was out to disprove myself. What a strange saying, when we are apt to use it in conditions where we do not wish to be disproved. Indeed, having things down to a science implies a certain level of comfort in one's own ways, whereas science seeks to refute knowledge claims so that it might know what is not. Should I wish to test the equivocal definitions of this word I wonder what sense of "science" I might use to discern such a thing? I should have to run the test before I should be able to run it so that I might run it in order to run it. See?
Ahh, my tone has yet changed again. There is something different in it, though I know not when or how or why it changed. I might guess but I'd rather not, this is all too amusing for me. Leave it in the subconscious, willingly ignore it, then try to guess it without trying to access it. It's all very much like playing a game of chess with yourself, in which you pretend not to know what that rapscallion across the table is thinking or working on, yet you try to determine what it might be from his or her moves. The game itself becomes contained inside another game. And this second game is what intrigues me.
It's 3:55 and my concept of time is worse than normal. Usually night and day have no distinction other than visible light. I could not tell you if it be closer to noon or supper at most times of the day, though I could tell you some considerable amount of time had passed since breakfast. With caffeine late nights and early mornings become one. Of course they always were one, I mean that with caffeine I actually start addressing them truthfully, rather than making the distinction between them for convenience's sake. Yet another strange phrase, how is it that we are looking out for the benefit of convenience? For the "sake of convenience" would make more sense, though I do not know if sounding like something makes more sense is a good enough reason to change one's language in everyday speech. We have our idioms, and they seem to get us by enough, so we should stick to them, at least for the sake of convenience.
And now I turn to you. You who read this. Whoever you are, for whatever reason: whether to find something funny or interesting or in hopes you'll be mentioned or to find something out about myself. Nothing here is not nonsense. These are silly games I play to lull myself to sleep about things I cannot speak to other people, for while other people talk about weather, sports, news, and other drivel, I don't share this in common with my fellow man. I have nothing to speak about with many of you. I can speak in terms of logic, and I can make jokes to lighten the mood, but neither nor both can serve me at all times of the day. So it should suffice to lock up my drivel until I can expel it here, ready for the waste management center I call dreamland.
I type on the brink of that place. My hands seem miles away now. My vision recedes deeper into my skull, preparing for the turning to the inside to analyze what lies underneath all this bone and marrow and blood. Bleh.
It's 4:21 and I'm letting my imagination take over for a bit now, and let that part of me that touches reality rest.
I cannot tell how I am "doing" as they say.
If I were to answer the question, "How are you doing?"
I might respond, "I am doing it well enough."
"Doing what?" one might ask.
"Typing," I would whisper, eyebrows lifted so as to make the question's absurdity apparent.
I cannot tell what sort of tone I am writing in; I would imagine this is how I would speak if I were a writer. Alas, I am not a writer, and if I were, I said I wouldn't tell what tone I'm writing in. Whatever it is, it is different, refreshing in the most literal sense, for it is not fresh, but is a renewal of something; it reminds me of how much I loved literature in middle school...and most of high school...throw in a smidge of college.
I imagine tonight I might write of many things: of the dances that stars perform on moonless nights, the dreams that drift about ocean depths, friends who are like sculptors, the appearance and smell and taste and color of my dinner, divine paradoxes, brutal truths sprinkled with hope, and all manner of things that would be spread around with ink like a horrible puzzle with pieces from another box. I imagine all sorts of things, but none ever occur. Perhaps I live looking to some exciting future in my imagination, but the part of me attached to reality expects sheer boredom from everyone and everything. I wonder where such a part exists...hmm. What nonsense.
I am, for lack of a better word, bored. And now even my imagination has become completely internalized, rarely shared, rarely let out to play. As a result it is a slothful creature, only responding to increasing amounts of ridiculous conditions or overt stimulation from others. My boredom however prevents the latter, and the former is by its nature, rare.
Perhaps I am perpetually operating in some kind of defense mechanism, years of harnessing and perfecting it, down to a "science" as we say -- as if I was out to disprove myself. What a strange saying, when we are apt to use it in conditions where we do not wish to be disproved. Indeed, having things down to a science implies a certain level of comfort in one's own ways, whereas science seeks to refute knowledge claims so that it might know what is not. Should I wish to test the equivocal definitions of this word I wonder what sense of "science" I might use to discern such a thing? I should have to run the test before I should be able to run it so that I might run it in order to run it. See?
Ahh, my tone has yet changed again. There is something different in it, though I know not when or how or why it changed. I might guess but I'd rather not, this is all too amusing for me. Leave it in the subconscious, willingly ignore it, then try to guess it without trying to access it. It's all very much like playing a game of chess with yourself, in which you pretend not to know what that rapscallion across the table is thinking or working on, yet you try to determine what it might be from his or her moves. The game itself becomes contained inside another game. And this second game is what intrigues me.
It's 3:55 and my concept of time is worse than normal. Usually night and day have no distinction other than visible light. I could not tell you if it be closer to noon or supper at most times of the day, though I could tell you some considerable amount of time had passed since breakfast. With caffeine late nights and early mornings become one. Of course they always were one, I mean that with caffeine I actually start addressing them truthfully, rather than making the distinction between them for convenience's sake. Yet another strange phrase, how is it that we are looking out for the benefit of convenience? For the "sake of convenience" would make more sense, though I do not know if sounding like something makes more sense is a good enough reason to change one's language in everyday speech. We have our idioms, and they seem to get us by enough, so we should stick to them, at least for the sake of convenience.
And now I turn to you. You who read this. Whoever you are, for whatever reason: whether to find something funny or interesting or in hopes you'll be mentioned or to find something out about myself. Nothing here is not nonsense. These are silly games I play to lull myself to sleep about things I cannot speak to other people, for while other people talk about weather, sports, news, and other drivel, I don't share this in common with my fellow man. I have nothing to speak about with many of you. I can speak in terms of logic, and I can make jokes to lighten the mood, but neither nor both can serve me at all times of the day. So it should suffice to lock up my drivel until I can expel it here, ready for the waste management center I call dreamland.
I type on the brink of that place. My hands seem miles away now. My vision recedes deeper into my skull, preparing for the turning to the inside to analyze what lies underneath all this bone and marrow and blood. Bleh.
It's 4:21 and I'm letting my imagination take over for a bit now, and let that part of me that touches reality rest.
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