Alright, here we go. Third attempt. Going to try and get some real crap written now. Don’t know if I can, but still going to try. One should always try.

The music has been reset. I’m in a better position for writing. I think I can do this. I hope I can do this. I am doing it, but will I do it?

Oh no, the questions are creeping in again!

So anyway, I think I can do it and it is good exercise, really. Just getting all of these thoughts out and organising myself in a way that allows me to write quickly. That allows me to write rapidly. I am having some difficulty, but I can do it and I will do it, and maybe after it is all done, it will be done and therefore it will be… completed. For a few seconds, anyway.

But now I can look out the window and see sunlight, and my position is already relaxing and that is never a good thing. There are holes in the ceiling tiles and they are designed that way. They almost look like a net and I can see through them. I can see what lies beyond the net. It’s just the usual hidden stuff, and it’s not that interesting.

I’d prefer to be next to a window right now. Much better light and all that. Still, it’s not so bad here. This is an alright space to be in at the present moment, but it could be better. I could have won the lottery and therefore be doing my long and moody drive into wherever I will go.

I could also slide there, but the sweaty film has been removed and so I’d just hurt myself quite badly if I attempted that.

So anyway, I’m sitting here, doing my usual thing. Writing far more words than I should. Doing more writing than is necessary. There’s still a lot to churn out before it can be declared that there is nothing left to churn out. That’ll be not too far away, anyway. But I have a plan and writing utter crap is part of that plan, really. It’s all nonsense and it’s all moody nonsense, with a sprinkling of depression on your roll so you can eat the roll and as you eat the roll you can taste the depression and, therefore, feel sad, or something.

It’s all about the miserable factor, really. The more miserable, the more poignant. The more touching. The greater the crap, the greater the feelings. And it’s all about the cheap grab. Don’t go for the deep, stay in the shallow. You know, those sorts of things.

However, there might just be a spark of joy, too. There might just be something that reveals that it’s all worth it. All that suffering and all the other things people who are more often than not in a position where they don’t suffer as much as you tell you. But I do think the misery is worth it, sometimes, because it can help us learn things. I do think there are better way to learn things, however.

I don’t know. I just don’t feel right being happy all the time, so my view here is heavily skewed.

So the day continues and I keep on writing and I keep on racing the clock. I’m falling behind but I’m doing my time well, and there are only a few minutes before the end of the work day left. Only a few minutes, and I am one person writing far more than I should, but it’s worthwhile writing… I hope. I hope it’s worthwhile, if only because it is allowing me to keep on writing. It is allowing me to do the thing that I wanted to do. Or rather, I am allowing myself to do the think that I wanted to do. And so the day goes and I keep on racing and hoping. I keep on trying. You have to keep trying in life; it’s what helps you get to something at the end of it all, or something.

I’m running out of things to say. Can you tell?

Anyway, the day is nearly over. I am nearly at the end of it and soon I will go home and get stressed due to having to clean up after other people. I’m not looking forward to that, but I’ll get it done. I’ll survive. I always do. Not much else to do, really.

Guess I could succeed.

But right now I am sitting here, and I am appreciating the space. I am appreciating the time ticking away, and I’m appreciating being alive. It’s a good feeling. Who knows how long it will last. I’m not worried, though. I’ve got plenty of time to go through what I have to go through. I have places to be and people to see, and I have a desk to sit at that will allow me to sit in a position that I can only describe as “one of the positions one can sit in”, and that is a good thing. Or it’s not. This is yet to be determined. Or is it?

So anyway, there are only a few minutes left. I keep going. I keep writing away and I keep racing the clock, and I keep saying everything I’ve said before. It’s all cyclical, or a spiral, or something. But I can smell the minutes ticking away, and I just want to make sure I get out on time. I want to make sure that I taste that sweet, polluted air when I get outside, so then I can say “I don’t need to smoke.” I won’t say that, however, because that would be an utterly ridiculous thing to say in this situation, and I want to be as serious as I possibly can be, but I won’t. I won’t. I’ll step outside and I’ll be quiet. Probably suits me much better, or something.

The time it took to write one thousand words: 09:56:49

Happy to admit that this was not worth the time, nor effort. So many better things could’ve been written. Nothing would have been better to write.

Written at work.