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I have been forcing myself to write something tonight to only end up writing this about not being able to write, even though then, my statement is false, since I am writing now.
It’s like the riddle ‘what gets wetter as it dries?’ *
But then again it also isn’t really like that, because the content of what is said is ultimately irrelevant.
I could be writing about how I fell from the sky without a parachute, landed on both feet (it’s all in the landing), right in the middle of an ongoing orgy, but none of it would not really be happening.
Anyone who writes is a masochist by definition, some in the more literal sense than others (though I will leave it to your imagination to decide how literal it would be in my case).
I am focussing my thoughts on a bigger piece of writing these days, that’s true, though it is mostly in my head.
If I have my lapped top on top of me, distractions are easily within reach. Then research quickly turns into a video on youtube of a cat falling over (this is of course an overdramatized statement – I have never watched a cat video online, may Da Lord strike me down right now if I am lying *looks up with a hint of religious fear* because of course I watched some: I even made a cat video myself one time – to date, it remains my most succesful work of art, which I guess is understandable, since its message is more accessible to the majority of internet surfers who need a break from all the porn (there’s only so much onanism one can do in a day...). The critique on society is perhaps more palpable than with any other piece of art ever made in the history of the world. I bet if Assad and other despots would spend a bit more time watching cat videos, they might realise the error of their ways and hand out free ice cream to make up for it.
My hands are shackled to my keyboard. Carpale and his Tunnel Syndrome are tempted to make their way into my fingers. But fingers refuse it, like they refuse to be soaked in water for longer than ten seconds (whenever I am taking a bath, the tips of my finger I always keep above the water – wouldn’t want to drown and/or to get wrinkly skin). Like an escapologist, we try to struggle our way to freedom. Unlike the escapologist, however, it won’t be with a key that lies hidden in his lower intestine (I know this because I used to date an escapologist – or maybe the boy just had issues, it’s hard to be sure of these things), it will be by beating the board of keys underneath our fingers. Sometimes I think it would just be easier to go fetch a key down “there”, but I can’t be arsed (pun definitely intended) to go along with it. Sometimes the hard way out can also be the easy way out.
And we ride along on our imaginary horses with our imaginary friend in an imaginary wilderness of balloons and flying monkeys. There is no alternative but to ride that horse downstream, because that way we reach the end of the world (not the end as in “destruction”, but the literal end of this flat surface of land). We never asked for reasons any more, we stopped doing that a long time ago.
Reasons are SO 2004 anyway. Best nobody should bother with them for as long as we all may live.
This text does not exist.
* = A towel!
It’s like the riddle ‘what gets wetter as it dries?’ *
But then again it also isn’t really like that, because the content of what is said is ultimately irrelevant.
I could be writing about how I fell from the sky without a parachute, landed on both feet (it’s all in the landing), right in the middle of an ongoing orgy, but none of it would not really be happening.
Anyone who writes is a masochist by definition, some in the more literal sense than others (though I will leave it to your imagination to decide how literal it would be in my case).
I am focussing my thoughts on a bigger piece of writing these days, that’s true, though it is mostly in my head.
If I have my lapped top on top of me, distractions are easily within reach. Then research quickly turns into a video on youtube of a cat falling over (this is of course an overdramatized statement – I have never watched a cat video online, may Da Lord strike me down right now if I am lying *looks up with a hint of religious fear* because of course I watched some: I even made a cat video myself one time – to date, it remains my most succesful work of art, which I guess is understandable, since its message is more accessible to the majority of internet surfers who need a break from all the porn (there’s only so much onanism one can do in a day...). The critique on society is perhaps more palpable than with any other piece of art ever made in the history of the world. I bet if Assad and other despots would spend a bit more time watching cat videos, they might realise the error of their ways and hand out free ice cream to make up for it.
My hands are shackled to my keyboard. Carpale and his Tunnel Syndrome are tempted to make their way into my fingers. But fingers refuse it, like they refuse to be soaked in water for longer than ten seconds (whenever I am taking a bath, the tips of my finger I always keep above the water – wouldn’t want to drown and/or to get wrinkly skin). Like an escapologist, we try to struggle our way to freedom. Unlike the escapologist, however, it won’t be with a key that lies hidden in his lower intestine (I know this because I used to date an escapologist – or maybe the boy just had issues, it’s hard to be sure of these things), it will be by beating the board of keys underneath our fingers. Sometimes I think it would just be easier to go fetch a key down “there”, but I can’t be arsed (pun definitely intended) to go along with it. Sometimes the hard way out can also be the easy way out.
And we ride along on our imaginary horses with our imaginary friend in an imaginary wilderness of balloons and flying monkeys. There is no alternative but to ride that horse downstream, because that way we reach the end of the world (not the end as in “destruction”, but the literal end of this flat surface of land). We never asked for reasons any more, we stopped doing that a long time ago.
Reasons are SO 2004 anyway. Best nobody should bother with them for as long as we all may live.
This text does not exist.
* = A towel!
