Stupidity Hole

I’ve begun writing a fair bit earlier than usual, and so I feel good. I feel so good, in fact, that I’m not going to write another word and this whole post is merely my announcing my entering a silence of a sort. Yes, this is the time for silence.

I feel so good I’m going to stop writing and I will never write again. There will be no more words. There will be no more time. This is the end of the writing; it’s quiet time, now. Quiet for all eternity so that I can get a good nap in and quiet so that the koalas out there, somewhere, might find what they are looking for as they will no longer be tormented by my incessant tying, sending everything into disarray and disorder, thus leading to a stressful life for an animal that does not need anything less than something approximating a sense of order in their lives.

My fingers will finally find their rest and I will be fine. I will take it easy and in taking it easy, easiness will be taken… for me. No one else. Everyone else has to work harder to compensate for the sudden dearth of crap emanating from this space.

But I will relax and I will read and start catching up on my books. Could probably catch up on them more if I was doing less driving as I’d have more time for reading during transport, but one step at a time, and often going away from where I need to, or feel I should go. And the first step is stopping the writing because I feel good.

You see, so much writing is built on suffering. In fact, all writing is built on suffering. There is no denying of this. It is so simple, yet so misunderstood. A writer’s greatest weakness is feeling anything better than average at best, and even then that might be pushing it too far. The moment a writer feels good, that’s it. Career over. Go home, turn around, don’t even think about thinking as there is no thinking left to do.

And so… yeah. Feeling good. Career over. Nowhere to go but away, into permanent retirement where I will get to experience the golden oldies and eject myself from contemporary society so suddenly and violently that people just won’t understand, and they never do anyway as the life of a writer is one of struggle and suffering and paint and torment, and trying to make sense of it all whilst trying to make sense of it all in a way that shows that some sense has been made… of it all. These are the things that we concern ourselves with on a basis only described as “daily”, and not forthrightly, though I have a feeling someone will attempt to. They may try; they are always welcome to, but I shall laugh at their failure as I write no more words and feel good about it.

The time it took to write five-hundred words: 06:49:42

Bit of fun. Bit of silliness. Mostly easy to write. Had a few moments where I was actively thinking too much, but otherwise a smooth piece to write.

Written at home.