Sitting here, wondering. Thinking about what it is that I should do. I want to churn out words but I should do some editing. I should do the culling of the words. I should do that, but I’m not. Too many words to get through. Too many lives to think about, or perhaps none at all. Everything twisted and turning and I’m just sitting here, trying to think of what I can write and, like many other times, I have nothing other than lengthy sentences that live a life far beyond what is necessary.

Still, I’m getting through things. I’m getting things done. I’m getting to where the ends are and then when I find those, I can go find new beginnings. I’m trying to think of what there is that can be said at this moment. I should just let my mind be free, though maybe I have and this is all that is left and I just don’t recognise it. I don’t know.

I’ve spent so long writing about writing that perhaps that is all I have left. I’ve harvested the crops too many times and the lands are no longer fertile. What do I do about this? How do I go about going about? Is there a point? I mean, there always is, but is there now? Do I have something I can still offer?

I’m trying to think and I’ve nothing. I’m sitting here at this table in this room that is only full of me, and soon the voices that are rapidly approaching. But it is mostly me sitting at a wall, and the voices are gone and the room is just full of me once more. It’s all not happening. This is life. This is where everything sits and lies. This is the zenith.

It’s not, but it feels like it.

I feel that being happy was a bad move on my part, but I am happy. I am looking forward to life and living, and I’m feeling good. Not the best I could, but good and good is good enough for now. That’s fine by me. At least, for now.

But really, being happy or sad or whatever else didn’t change a thing about my writing. Didn’t change a thing about my drive. The only thing that changes my drive is trying to write and pushing past all the things that I need to push past. Pushing past all the errors and mistakes and finding where the truth lies; the truth of my writing.

That sounds a lot more self-indulgent than I intended. Oh well.

But I’m sitting here and there’s a drone and I’m thinking about writing. I’m thinking about the beanie that sits next to me, and I’m thinking about the lunch I just ate. I’m thinking about heading home soon and doing washing tomorrow, and I’m thinking about the loneliness of this space, and it is a lonely space. It is a space that holds no warmth, though it can feel warm. That warmth comes from the people within it when they are within it. Right now it’s just cold and not sterile, though it could certainly feel sterile, and kind of does. I think. I don’t know. Anyway.

So… what else is there to say? What else can I offer? I’ve lost a lot of the year and I’m about to get into a mad scramble to make up for time. I don’t know why I’m going to do this, but I am going to do it for some reason. See where it gets me. Maybe see nothing. We’ll see. We’ll always see.

So many more words to write before the end of the day and so many more words to write before I get to go home. I can see myself in the window. I can see myself typing, and it’s just me. It’s just my reflection. Just a projection of myself doing the things that I am doing, and that doesn’t mean much of anything, but it is interesting to see how I type from a different perspective. Very rough, very flow. That’s interesting.

Not really. Or maybe quite.

A few minutes before I need to get back to work, and I’ve plenty of time to keep on crapping on, really. Plenty of time to be bored in this space where I feel lonely. Plenty of time to find out what lies beyond the room and what lies beyond the basic series of thoughts that I am having. Not sure where to go from here.

The space is broken once more and the voices are mixed and varied, and they utter nothingness and inanity, and, quite frankly, that’s great. These are people engaging in conversation and story, and they are enjoying the company they share between themselves. They are talking about things that might matter to them in this moment and will no longer matter later on, maybe. Who is to say? It is up to them to work all of that out, and I’m sure they will if they are willing to try. But they won’t because that’s not worth their time in this present moment. There are more important things to engage with, and that is what they are doing. And it’s good.

The space is broken and it is filling with some joy. I’m sitting here, facing this wall, trying to get this bit of writing done before I return to my desk. Having little work to do, having things to get to the end of. It’s a good day and a bad day, and there are many things to learn and unlearn, and I think I just want to go home and rest. Get some sleep before tomorrow comes. Try and find whatever and try to find it wherever I can. Just sit at home and relax, and I certainly can relax a bit more than I do. But maybe I won’t. Maybe I’ll just keep on charging into whatever I should do.

The time it took to write one thousand words: 11:27:71

I wrote this a few days ago and didn’t get around to sharing it until now. I don’t know why. I can’t remember what I wrote and I feel as though reading over it wouldn’t be the best thing for me to do. Don’t know why.

Written at work.