What a day. It comes in waves and phrases and forms and it shapes itself around itself, and it doesn’t even know that it does. It’s stuck on a loop of continuously moving out of itself whilst going back to the start that it drags into the present. It is a strip that moves through time, and it moves constantly, stretching and compressing along the way. It is itself and it returns to the start only to move slightly further away and then come back. There is no start anymore, and there never really was an end.

It goes on and on, and then it goes on some more and it never stops. It never relents. It is taunting my ears and teasing my eyes, and I look out a window as a cry for help, but all there are are ore windows. More windows that go on forever and ever, and even when there seems an end they just wrap back around and, lo and behold, nothing has changed. Everything has moved, but nothing has changed. Still, there is progress in time. There is progress in space. There is everything and nothing and it all comes together and creates thoughts that change.

Then thoughts change their shape and words, and things move in and out and cycle toward new eternities. The horizon of thoughts remains unobtainable and that’s the way it should be, and they come into combat with the day and the space and then there are more collisions. There are spreads of nothingness fighting spreads of everything, and nothing matters, and through all of that, perhaps some things matter. Perhaps a lot of things matter, and even though the day shapes itself around itself and moves in and out as it becomes an everlasting, changing static form, all those within it age as they move toward whatever lies next. Wherever the tomorrow leads. These are the issues at hand, but all I’ve got are issues.

To say that this is to say something would be stretching the truth, but sometimes it’s better to say nothing. Sometimes gibberish reaches in and reveals more than one would expect, and perhaps that’s the way things should be. Sometimes the masses of words and the masses of sentences that lead nowhere and do little else other than create surface imagery are better said than nothing at all, and I don’t know what it is that they would reveal, but it’s quite possible that they would reveal something. That they’d reveal anything at all. Who is to say at the end of the day, really? Not me, or maybe me. Maybe it’s up to me to say everything and nothing, and maybe it’s up to me to keep spawning senseless, lacking work. Maybe only I can do that, but I need to find a way to escape the loop in which
I am trapped. Or perhaps I just need to accept it and start getting on with what remains of my day.

The time it took to write five-hundred words: 06:37:16

Not the best, not the worst. Just had a cascading mess of thoughts, decided to blurt them out as horribly as possible.

Written at work.