So… is this the great work that will propel me into a life of word craft in the name of some grand illusion politely and arrogantly titled art? I doubt such an event, but this may signify something smaller and yet profound just the same. I will try to not make it terribly small as I don’t know if my ego can handle something that isn’t at least pretending to be fantastic. After all, I didn’t get laid this week, much like the many weeks before this one. This serenity I seek seems to be so far out of hand that it can hardly be seen.
That is what we are after, right? Peace and that whole deal is the ultimate goal for mankind, isn’t that so? When you start to muck around in it with ‘whys’ and ‘how comes’ you may find yourself understanding that such a thing as peace may have never been really known and that alone is the cause for its desire. You’ve never had it, so you have to have it. Silly beasts will rarely see that you can never really have anything.
I bought a newspaper today, strange I know. Iran says it had a successful missile test and the two Sudans have come to some sort of monetary agreement in regards to the oil pipeline that they so depend on. There was a man with no legs past his knees who ran in the Olympics and Syrian fighting is causing tension in Turkey based upon… That’s right, our good friend organized religion. There is a very stupid looking boy on the bottom part of the front cover who is spraying himself in the face with a water bottle. It is apparently quite warm in Wisconsin.
My favorite article was naturally located about eight pages in from the young and dull Wisconsinite. There must have been a mix up because they should have been switched by the standards of journalism specific to such a large publication.
A man in Pakistan has claimed that he can get a car to run on water, which paves a way to ending the energy crisis in his nation (and really the world). This would help to end the need for so much fighting and conquering that goes on happening including nearly all the killing that doesn’t have to do with gods and even some that do. I read on, skeptically of course, as every American should, only to find that such a discovery has been made in places like Japan and Sri Lanka. It was followed by a sentence stating the obvious, that these claims had largely been ignored.
Oh, and the United States, they had one of these claims according to the newspaper too. I looked it up and considering that these are usually low funded garage projects, the fact that they usually work should be nothing sort of expected. Man is the only real god, after all.
What is the point of bringing such a thing up? I don’t know all that much about any kind of science. I honestly don’t really know much about anything. I suppose it was to speak about something other than my boring old self. That boy is dying dead as we speak. He should be fine with it, since it was really a nice trip and was really his time. From the corpse, I’m expected to emerge as the all American man. I have personally taken on the boy’s burden of cultivating value back into the souls of all. It’s time, bury the boy. Bury the boy.
Trying to draw on inspiration that I had so many minutes ago may be too futile to even attempt. So I shan’t, and shall continue bouldering forward. As I look outside, I see a sun that is starting to break up all the moisture that billows in white all above my head. I occasionally hear a bird chirp or a siren howl over the jazz bass that resonates through my room. I see the tree outside of my window that I promised to spend the summer writing to. I haven’t really done that at all and with a week left in the last summer of a so far lifelong student of this vast social nothingness, I would feel cheap and sleazy trying to pander to her now. But with a little whiskey, when have I not been a little sleazy. Or is it charming? I can hardly tell the difference over all the pop music.
I asked my friend about me and my whiskey. She said it’s alright. I told her without my writing, I am but a hopeless bundle of too many thoughts about ghosts.
And yet, I have produced just a few works of poetry and music and a few ideas for a novel. I was told by a stranger to read more, and so I shall. He or she is right as the easiest thing for any writer to do is stop reading. So here goes. I’ll try to make this as painless as possible.
I stand, or sit rather, before you now to make some grand proclamation about nothing and you shouldn’t worry all that much about it. I have had a youth more full of thought than anything else, but the tastes of physical reality that would comply with any sort of daydream a boy in my predicament would have are still so grand that they very well be immortal. I have not had all that many kisses in my life, but I do have at least one, definitely two or three that will warm what soul I have left on my deathbed. I may very well have more, but I spoke with a friend about the future and we agreed the problem was that it’s like watching for a train that is coming from the other direction.
I will falter and wobble from such a strong stance many more times, but as with before it won’t be enough. Unfortunately, I have found myself to be a much more resilient creature than I would openly admit, out of vain modesty. I could stay on these daydreams and I always will. I have whiskey for dealing with the wonderful troubles of women, and writing and music for everything else. I won’t rest until my death. Naps don’t count though.