Musings at Midnight

It’s strange how the bottom keys on a keyboard line up, then soon alter their ways. Almost as if distracted they become staggered, offset, almost disorderly, and yet somehow comfortably convenient. Only to rearrange themselves at the late end of the spectrum, back to a grid. Stupid F 1-12. Stupid F13, Stupid F5. Their constant glare of light only adds to its demeaning stare, and how it taunts and wishes to poke and jest at how slow and impotent one’s fingers can be. Impotence of the fingers. I should make a pill for that. “Idle hands are the Devil’s playground, so take Filangequil.” I’d be rich. Like, dark chocolate rich. Perhaps then I could forget. Perhaps then I could finally forget how cliche that previous sentence’s style was, and too the ideas of most of the pieces I have, or will end up writing. I feel their weight. I feel the weight of their lumber, I feel the weight of their ink, I feel the weight of their words and the their time—the useless hours fettered away on the pretentious thoughts of others. And how those thoughts too are myself. A boulder and chain attached, the penance of being great. Don’t make me laugh* (from here on out cliche or over-used verbage will be thusly marked, two * * denote common misconceptions, while three * * * denote that i no longer have any idea about what my subject is or how the verb should relate.) * * * To be or not to be, that is the question. * So it goes. ** A penny saved is a penny earned. * etc. Irregardless I find pennies quite fascinating in their use. I lied. I just like using “irregardless” to tick off grammar Nazis. Mostly because I use it correctly. Witty as I can be however, I still feel as though there is something missing. Wit is, after all, the epitaph of emotion (Nietzsche 127). So why is it then that each time I see a New York Times Best Seller my heart sinks? Sinking with that ball and chain. Why is it that each failure is coupled with the reinforcement of my humanity and the capabilities of my mind. Why is it that if I were to write a Best Seller i would be failing myself? Why is it that my own ignorance of what is intelligence so often coincides with an infatuation of my own gray matter? Why do I constantly slip into parallel sentence structure, failing to ever reach any valid point? I know others have felt this. A burning mind, horrible with ideas and wanting. Yet it sets fire to the soul, whose lava then incinerates and oozes through each and every pore. Leaving just a pandering throbbing heart for the one I love and no feelings for anything or anyone else. Adding up to a drowning of any hope of the one will to be a hero and mentor to someone as he was to me. How could I even ever try to match him? What experiences do I have? I have nothing, and less than even that. I have a vertigo inducing combination of bright screen, bright keyboard, and dark room, dark countenance. Stupid F13, Stupid F5.

Musings at Midnight

William Adler

Joined March 2009

  • Artist

Artist's Description

ENJOY. And enjoy spontaneous Caps Lock. Kind of an interior monologue of sorts.

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