I hate being told what to do. I love … I’ve forgotten what I love. I must not love it half as much as I thought I did, to have forgotten it in such a pococurante manner.
My hates, my hates, my hates – they stick to me like bogies – the kind that refuse to leave my finger no matter how much I flick and flick and flick.
I kid myself that I’d love to be able to make people cry. Like, in books. The kind of writing that tugs the strings of your heart and floods your eyes with tears.
How many tears must we make before we realise that this is not the best way to bring back the things and people that we love?
Gah – enough of this maudlin nonsense.
I straighten my back and raise up my head. I crack my neck and flex my fingers. Looking at the keyboard and then at the screen and then at the room around me and then at the people in that room makes me realise that I had slipped into a world of my own. A place inside my head that bears little relation to the reality of here and now.
It’s so easy to fall into a funk that I wonder whether this is not the most natural state of being. Of course, it isn’t. The most natural state is that in which we scan the environment for danger and avoid it if it approaches. But our lives are now so safe that there’s no need to do that anymore.
We sit in sanitised surroundings so free from snakes and bears that we can relax and fanny around with the thoughts inside our minds as if they were important. Then we share permutations of these things with the world. Things that we imagine might shock our grandmothers, but probably wouldn’t. Things that would probably make the people around us laugh and laugh (but not in a good way) if, by accident (or design), they were to be looking over our shoulders. Reading our words.
This stylistic salmagundi.
This bowl of nonsense we proffer.
Like I said – enough of this nonsense.