This twee attempt at inert blurting shall no doubt make sense only myself, although I make no apology for that. My thoughts are my own, and as such I shall express them the only way I know how. To confuse and befuddle to the point where even I am unsure of my own meaning. That would be my intention if it weren't for the pesky fact that I'm not quite certain what I would like to say. Should I provide a commentary on the weather, lamenting the grey skies and the weeping clouds? It seems rather crass and crude to me. Something not unlikend to Poe or Whitman, "and then he died..In the rain". Do I wish to go down that path of self pity? I think not. Being sure of my own lack of value and not highlighting it is the only self assurance that prevents me from slipping into an abyss of platitudes and trite irony. But to each his own, I have to concede. Be what one wishes, be as sad and unforgiving as one wishes. They deem it "one" simply for that purpose. It belongs to one, the choice and the freedom. It is my freedom to complete nonsense prose just to engorge myself in the less simplistic of language, showing the world that I am not simply somebody with nothing going for them. It could take an hour to record this; perhaps longer? But in the matter of time I care not. I waste whole evenings on things I could never attain, avoiding that nonsense word of work where I can. Procrastination and me are one. Perhaps if I were more indebted and commited to it, I could procrastinate from life itself. But what does one do when one wishes to avoid putting things off? How does one procrastinate against procrastination? It seems rather an impossiblity to me, much is the idea of work. Perhaps works is simply that: a procrastination in itself against work. Perhaps me repeating the word shall infuse it's meaning and somehow make it more than it is. I repeat it, therefore it is as valid as the work itself. I am commiting myself the time between importance, to the lowest of ebbs and the forgotten hour. How many of you shall remember the time you put off that of utmost importance? Is it merely a dire need to waste ones life in the hopes that failure shall be avoided? Is this a failure in itself? Shall I soon realise that the questions I ask are nothing more than putting off meaning in this not so twee blurt? I like to think that maybe this in itself is evidence of my meaning. A proctrastination of its own kind to profide its own morals; a fable if you will. I doubt there is any life lesson in this other than what one can do in a wasted moment, when hearts and minds are no longer connected and one is forced to fend for themselves in the forest of Dene: the illusive closure.
|