It’s not enough to simply put in a few key words and call it a day

The reason I’m still here is because I feel a need to.

No, that’s not right.

The reason I’m still here is because I’ve been forced to.

Yeah. More like that. I’ve been forced. By myself.

I’d like to talk start by talking about pseudo-philosophical bullshit for a few thousand words and avoid any hint of structure or order, but I know it’s gonna be shit. I’d make generalizations about things that I’m not familiar with, joke about things I don’t find humour in, and cry about things I hold no feelings for. I’d be trying to emulate what I believe a “smart and aware person” would write, and it’d be a sorry excuse of a knock-off. I’d only be pretending. No, worse than that. I’d be like a pre-schooler trying to act the part of Romeo – I don’t know what passion is.

I don’t think about what I’m writing. And I continue to do it. I can keep doing this forever. I’ll just keep talking about what I’m doing in the moment. I’m typing. I’m moving my fingers. I’m thinking about what I’m going to write in the immediate second, and I’m going to type it out. I’m typing everything out. But it sounds like shit. Everything sounds like shit. The world is brown for me. The walls are brown, the floor is brown, the sky is brown, and I’m brown (not really, I’m more yellow than brown), and the words are brown. There are a lot of brown things that aren’t shit, but I wouldn’t want to stick my nose close to find out.

Am I trying to be funny? No. Am I trying to be sophisticated? No. Am I trying to be creative? No.

Actually, I am. I’m trying to be all of those things. I’m trying to pander to myself. My type of writing. My type of audience. My style. My rules. But I don’t actually know what that means. I don’t know what my style is. I’m just typing. That’s… I guess you could interpret it as a style, but I haven’t typed enough to justify categorizing myself. I’m more comfortable with believing that I’m neutral. I’m more comfortable being “me.” But I don’t know what “me” is. I don’t know what I am.

Oh, here’s the introspective bs acting up again.

I’ve been writing for a long time. Mostly just essays and diary entries, among other pieces of shit. I needed to have some way to write stuff out, so  I just pretended that I had a style, and that I was confident in my ability to barf out whatever bullshit my teachers wanted to read. I have no clue as to what I’m trying to be. “Myself” is not a good enough explanation. I can act like I have a type – I can act as if I have a style, and I can act as if I’m trying to write better, but really, I’m just typing out an imaginary version of what “I” might be like.

Eventually, this “imaginary version” is going to become the “real version.” I don’t know when it’ll happen, but it will. And parts of it have already taken over. I’m starting to become more cynical. My phrases are short and efficient. I don’t talk.

But it feels unnatural. I’m always feeling this “welling-up” of words and expressions. Once in a while, I let it out. I let a few paragraphs out, and I ramble on and on about insignificant things. I feel the need to comment, but I reserve myself, because most of my thoughts are dumb. They’re not fleshed out. They’re just… empty. Pointless. Meaningless.

But they keep appearing.

And I accept them.

And I wait.

And I keep waiting, until I find even more empty comments.

And I dwell.

And then I look. I look for someone to take these things off of my hands, to find them a loving upper-middle class family to belong to. And when I find the right person, I’ll dump some of those empty thoughts onto them. And if they’re nice enough to stay, I’ll dump every single last one of those empty thoughts onto them. I’ll talk about my thoughts on the most inane shit, and I’m not going to stop until every single drop is gone from my brain.

It doesn’t matter if they’re not actually listening. They’re just an outlet. They can do whatever they want with my empty thoughts. They don’t actually have to go to a loving upper-middle class family. That’s just what I tell myself to make myself feel better. They can abandon them. They can abuse them. They can judge them. Because when they’re in someone else’s hands, they’re not my problem. They can throw them away for me, because I’m absolved of responsibility.

“There, I found you an owner. Now get lost.”

Because I’m too sentimental to euthanize them myself.

I step back to take a look at my handiwork. Ah, it’s just like looking at an unfinished house. There’s a bunch of scaffolding, and it all looks like – well, I don’t need to overuse the term. Poop, feces, excrement, dung. It’s not good. It might be good, eventually. And I’m betting on that eventuality. Yep. I’m holding my hips with my hands, and I’m just staring at this scaffolding. I’m just thinking to myself “Gee, this sure is a big house. I wonder what it’ll look like when it’s finished.”

And therein lies the issue.

I can’t really ask myself that… I’m the one building the house. And I have no idea what to start on. So I just keep talking to myself. Maybe accost some pedestrians nearby. I’ll pet their dog, start a conversation, and tell them to have a nice day. They’ll move along, and they’ll go home.

I stay here.

I can only stay here.

I have nowhere to go home to except here.

There are no other details. There is no friendly neighbour that checks up on me. I am by myself. There is simply me, the road, and the scaffolding. There is no blueprint. There is no lawn. All that is left here is the remains an unfinished project, the unfulfilled destiny of a house that had bigger aspirations. And now, it is but a shell, a fragment; the empty dream of a man who couldn’t see far enough.


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