In a few minutes I will be engaging in wrist destruction over three hours. I’m not looking forward to it, but it’s a perk of the job or something. I don’t know. It will not be fun. It will not be easy. It will be one of the most intense things I’ve done, but I hope it can be done easily. Or rather, I hope I can do it easily. I don’t know if it will be the case. But you know, learning and all that.

So what’s the purpose of this writing? Why am I doing this when I need to engage in that? I can’t provide the answers I seek, and the answers I seek lie far beyond the horizon. Far beyond the dawn. Far beyond everything I’ve never known… I wish. Really, it’s just work.

Finally, my skills in writing will pay off. This is a good thing. Or rather, my skills in writing at a speed that is considered heinous to some will pay off.

People need things done. I am the doer.

I sometimes fear hurting myself permanently. I should not necessarily fear this, but I should be more cautious. Caution helps us get through life. Caution helps things tick away in a good way. Caution is what will protect me when it comes to danger.

What am I going on about?

I’m listening to Ennio Morricone right now. It feels like the right kind of music to have going at this particular juncture in time. Sort of tense, wide, cinematic, scene-painting music. Music that sets a tone, tells a story, or rather, helps tell the story. Music that carries us through time and scene, emphaises, does not take over, and seeks to work in harmony with everything else it is involved with. Music that builds and releases, and music that flows on and on, and only for as long as it needs. Maybe this is the soundtrack I need for an upcoming drive, or something.

So the day is starting. I’m at work, I’m doing my thing. Sitting here, hoping for the best, expecting the worst. I’ll get there in the end. I’ll find what lies beyond the beyond. What is within my bounds of reach and what falls within the reach of my bounds.

So yeah. I’m just writing to warm up as I need to. I need to be ready for three hours of wrist destruction. I can get through it. I hope to get through it. It’s gonna take time. Approximately three hours. I’ll get there, however. I’ll get through it. I’ll get to the end and then I’ll cry and slump against my seat, fall into a deep slumber and snooze the day away. That’d be great. That’d be ace. I wish it were the case.

Gotta stop this rhyming… some time in the future, of course. Not now. Right now is the time to rhyme, but I lack the thyme to do it…

What am I going on about? Why now does the nonsense need to pour? I have the cap on and yet it keeps coming. It refuses to abate. It refuses to stop. I need it to stop. I need it to cease its ceaseless attack of everything and finding the nothingness to plug with more of itself. This does not help matters. This does not help everything. This does not help anything, either. This is the pain of the matter of life, and life is finding its way. Life is finding its way to come through the gibberish and the waste of words, and it pours on through but then the nonsense attacks with greater fervour, with greater grandiloquent disquiet, and I am naught but an imposter upon this shifting landscape, all toroidal and inverse and creating malaise and unease within the great population that spreads across thickets and bunched dunes, where the atmosphere disappears to imbibe upon itself, all lavish and slovenly, and large and in charge, and… yeah.

And so on and on it goes and it keeps going, and I can just spectate. I can just iterate. I can just find my feet and find them with a solemn promise that I will find out if I really am an imposter, or if I am just feeling like one. You know, come to full realisation and all that cool shit that sounds cool and shit.

But these things happen and events occur, and you try to get through it all the best way that you can, and sometimes that’s not good enough, but does it matter anyway? What does it matter? What does it mean? Who cares? Do I care? I don’t know. I’m just floating in a world that requires me to type like a person who types really fast at times, and I don’t know if that should be my entire identity. At lest, right now it is and I am the best person for it or some such nonsense, but it isn’t really nonsense. It’s just what it is and I keep on doing it and going through the motions and flexing my lack of writing speed in order to impress myself and only myself. How the way it go when it go, and it sure does!

But I don’t know what I’m going on about at this point. I think I just need a solid rest, and that will come to me soon, but not soon enough. But tomorrow! OR today. OR at some other stage in life when I finally allow myself to be at ease with everything, and hey, that would be nice. That would be nice and good and all of those other things, and… well, yeah. What else can I say? What else can I get across that makes less sense than just saying the thing? I don’t know. I don’t care to know. And it’s all good. It’s all groovy. I just know that I’ll get there and I’ll get the thing done well.

The time it took to write one thousand words: 11:45:52

Nice to know I still don’t have it, but this was fun in some places.

Written at work.