A bit of a cough and now I’m off to a racing start, though there is no racing and really I’m just thinking about how tired I am and how that affects my ability to get anything done, which sucks, but ultimately it’s on me for not being more responsible with going to bed at a reasonable hour relative to the time that I was waking up, so there I go.

With that being said, I do think that if I really am to accept the truth of responsibility in my lack of responsibility and repercussions for that, then instead of going on a lengthy tangent that rambles and goes nowhere, I should just own up to it, which I kind of am as it’s in writing, but of course I could say that this is pure fiction and therefore it really was an interesting narrative weaved whilst in character.

I don’t know where I’m going with this.

Of course these are possibilities and this is full of possibilities, much like life, though something something and then there’s some deepness, and really, being tired has some sort of merit to it that I will discover through some u9nlikely, yet utterly predictable combination of events that allow for realisation and then I go from there as it will be in the final hour or hours in which this is realised and then the climactic action scene can occur and all that other stuff and so on and so forth.

What am I trying to say here? Am I just trying to extend this being tired out into some sort of ramble that somehow is entertaining, yet utterly devoid of entertainment? Is that what I am trying to do here? I don’t know what my aims or motivations are and yet I cannot help but keep on going. I go in the vain hope that something of quality will arise, and yet there is no quality to be found here.

If this was a freshwater lake, it would be barren.

Anyway, I think that I shall work on this a bit more and then, once I have finished the writing, get on with other things so that the day doesn’t feel like another wasted opportunity. Don’t want to have too many of those on my hands as then they’ll be too full to hold something else of greater substance. This is the issue that I face and this is the beast that I need to slay, but of course I am yet to be armed and being yet to be armed is an issue.

What I need to be armed with is a set of empty hands. Maybe I can throw my wasted days at the beast and somehow make it go away that way, but then, after all is said and done, the stunning twist will reveal itself in a way that is both subtle and overt, creating massive shock:

The whole time this was happening, the beast was really me.

The time it took to write five-hundred words: 06:17:47

This is a bit of writing that I wrote.

It’s… it certainly is a set of words organised into sentences.

Written at home.