More than once I’ve been here; more times than some imagine might be possible, sitting in a dark corner, twirling empty bottles, staring. Please, some thought come, some reason to act. I need to act, repeated in my head over dreams of repetition. I look out into smoky darkness willing myself to care about something enough. Across a room, movement catches my eye, a conversation intense enough to draw me into the motion of it; swinging arms, bobbing heads, crossing legs. It’s the fantasy, I see. The dreaming drives us. To achieve something only removes the pleasure; getting what we want is not what we want.
Don’t let this fool you, trick you, make you think I have a plan. I’ve sat here so many times before, so many times before. I’ve wondered at it over and over again; I’ve wondered at it. I’ve looked so many times into the shallow depths, considered oh so few possibilities, until I hit on this one. Before you resides, in some form or other, the work you now so tokenly peruse at your leisure’s leisure. Your problem, you see, is that you think this has value, you think I have something to say, and now you know I’m like every other. If I say I have nothing to say, them surely I must have something to say, and if I admit in truly have nothing, then perhaps there is something. And by some miracle, maybe that something is truly worth saying, truly worth repeating, truly inspiring, insightful, thoughtful, moving, passionate, creative, worthy, perceptive, discerning, aware, and possibly even fruitful. I can always hope, and always hope for the future. I see someone sometime unearthing this ancient text, looking towards the sun for an idea to its meaning. Believe me when I tell you, I can do this, I can never do this, I can’t do this, I can’t never do this, I believe I can do this.
Maybe some concerned citizen will see this as dangerous.
