Free association. Sitting in the digital dark of the digital darkroom, my mind is blank and my eyes weighted heavy with the morning light, flourescent and harsh upon my retinas.
From breaking the “normal habit” as if this feverish log of my life in prose consists of a normal activity, I’m writing one long run on (which is really reduntant) for indeed a run on is naturally long, leading us to believe it “runs on”.
As if that could be so. It is most unlikely that I would put a period, or method of pausing leading my sentence there, but easier to believe if you consider that life does not always consist of periods, but sometimes semicolons; We collect our thoughts and continue dribbling them on, like a small child drinking a milkshake, until there ‘s puddles on the floor and unhappy infant with no more milkshake, left uncerimoniously in the high chair
until someone has pity and hands over some Cheerios, not the equivilant to the milkshake, but in the youngster’s hunger, doesn’t really know the difference, only knows that it seems as though it might be milkshake, and if they give it a chance it may prove to overall, be better for them : They need nourishment to grow, unceasing,
much like this stream of conciousness that finds itself soaking into my paper, like a bleeding heart into the bedroom sheets after the idea’s brutal and spastic murder.
Perhaps I’m merely wasting space, but I could continue at a later date. What are we wasting our time for here, sitting in a corner with a total unrealistic view of the world and typing, typing, typing on my blog and staring at the glowing, dying printer, disconnected from reality and hoping that the silence will be golden,
but now it has been tarnished, sallow, dim and still, melting on the fixtures and dripping on the floor. Foot steps in the glimmering puddles of wealth, leaving scraping heel marks on a Berber carpet.
And then the tick on many keys, twenty six and then some, problems arise and a finger stumbles to the colons or a number, and soon backspace is so often used that the label is oily and rubbed away to b…k…p.e…
no longer found and no longer needed, since surrender has been accepted and the white flag has been raised.
This is not so much nonsense as it is the workings of my brain when nothing else excites it, when the world is not worth my wonderings and I am tired, oh, so tired, of all the drama and the doldrums of
my school day, and then look at the clock again, again, seconds and a
minute and I’m on my way home, but what did I do today?
I woke up and went back to sleep, eyes wide shut.