I have been awake for far too long. However, that is not the pint of this writing.
There may be no point to this writing, which is the point of this writing. However, it is not pointing at anything, so I don’t know as to where I am going with this.
Maybe I am heading over there. It is over the hills and far away, toward some unknown destination that is of course known, but currently is unknown by me at this current moment.
Maybe there are flowing rivers and the sounds of wildlife away from the comfort of home. Maybe there are sounds I am yet to hear, yet somehow am entirely familiar with. Or something.
Perhaps there need not be a journey, but an extension of the imagination. Perhaps what I really need to do is push outward and let my mind reach and see what it can try to conjure up in order to absorb and transform into something different. Maybe that is the way forward that I must seek. If so, then perhaps that is indeed what I will seek. However, there is no knowing until I decide that it is the time to make a decision that will let me do the reaching out and all of that other stuff that I say that seems to make sense when viewed in a very specific manner, which is to say… something, I guess.
I think that there’s meant to be something here about the insignificance of it all, but I’ve forgotten to put it in. Instead I’ve talked about imagination, or the mind, or both, or neither; right now I am not quite sure, but I’m sure that with a bit of trying to work it out I can work it out. However, there’s a bit of difficulty in trying to insert the bit about insignificance at this stage, which might just prove significant as it speaks about the inability to have the ability to do the thing that needed to be done and so I cannot just walk back on that as now the work has transformed into something else and so now I have to admit that the work has become something else. It is away from what it is that I envisioned and so there is no envisioning left. I can only hang my head in shame and accept my act of deceit of the self, for there is no other thing that I can conjure that will match whatever it is that needs matching. I am left to hold my shame on my back and walk under its crushing weight, for there is little else that I can do that may help guide this toward something greater than whatever it is that I assume is great, or something.
So anyway, I think I’ll just let my imagination wander a bit and that should help to bring things to a nice conclusion.
Then again, maybe not. Maybe this will not find its conclusion.
The time it took to write five-hundred words: 05:43:80
This is a mess.
There’s not much else to say about it.
Written at home.