Here I sit, wondering why I start this with “Here I sit”, as it’s something I’ve probably used far too many times at this point, almost as a force of habit, or lack of better ideas in what to start a post with, because for some reason, even though I crave some sort 0of originality, I just don’t end up trying to do something new when I start writing, although, to be fair, I don’t think I’ve started enough of the things I write with “here I sit”, therefore not quite making it a heavy use of repetition as of yet, but I should really look into what else I can do to start one of these lengthy, pointless bits of writing that I do so often so I have a bit more variety happening.
However, I’m not very much of a varying writer-type-person, apparently.
Clearly I’m blowing all of this out of proportion (whatever it is, I’m not entirely sure, although it probably has something to do with originality), but if I don’t, I can’t plant the seeds that will grow into majestic and beautiful plants, hopefully producing some fruit and basil leaves that I’ll be able to use in my cooking of the food and preparing of the dishes to make the meals that will be appetising. I’ll need to do a fair bit of watering and plant care to make sure that they do indeed grow big, tall and strong, but I’ll need to make sure I don’t water too much as I don’t want the seeds to grow mouldy.
I’ll also need to make sure that they’re in pots that drain well with a soil that also drains well, so I’d need to head to the garden supplies place.
But that is a dangerous prospect, for the road is teeming with dangers and surprises that I would be forced to combat in some sort of battle that will involve the tides of mortality, with only one of the combatants walking away somewhat unscathed, whilst the other, whilst feeling the life fade away, will feel honoured to have engaged in this… eternal fight… although, to be honest, I’d prefer to do battle over a game of chess whilst riding a hippo through the majestic clouds of the elliptical sunrise through a moon of open seasons.
Eventually I’d get to the garden store, find out they’re out of what I wanted to get, therefore wasting my time, therefore leading to my heaving to travel the whole way back and experience more pointless ordeals of certain absurdities, sometimes involving carp and sometimes involving borscht of uncertain quality.
Quite frankly, that’s not something I would be looking forward to doing, so I’d rather just avoid the whole ordeal and instead think of something better to start with so that I may rest with ease and grace and, perhaps, some small quantity of blankets that would help keep me warm in the cold nights that I want to avoid in the winter, for they are cold, merciless, and lacking in warmth.
It’s a hard life, but sometimes that’s the way life is; not soft.
To be fair, instead of writing right now, what I really should be doing is going to sleep so I don’t wake up feeling tired as I will inevitably wake up earlier than I hope and, quite possibly, be unable to get back to sleep, which is not something I look forward to.
There are worse things to experience, but things like this do have a tendency to get really annoying, hence why I’d much rather go to sleep now instead of writing, and yet here I am, writing away in sentences (some being serious; some being silly) in the hopes that I will get to the end of what I’m trying to write (I think I’m trying to write something, but I’m not too sure, to be honest), look upon it and feel the beauty of it radiating into my face and telling me just ow poorly a write I am, with me begging for its forgiveness.
Of course it will refuse me, tell me to get better before I decide that the best course of action is to get worse, return back to it’s stationary, dormant position, leaving me to wonder as to how it is that I can get better as a writer.
I would have to practise a lot more than I do (which has not been much in recent times), then when I get tired of practising, practise some more until I know that I can write things that are fine with me writing them instead of getting angry and /or frustrated about the fact that they had to put up with my hands creating them.
I should also probably learn how to type using more of my fingers.
In any event, soon I will be in bed, but not before this is finished, for I cannot leave this incomplete.
No, I must make sure that it is finished before I rest, otherwise I will have left this bit of writing incomplete and therefore I don’t know what I’d do with myself, other than get on with my life as it would not be the end of the world and there are more important things to worry about, such as being a responsible person with certain responsibilities, as well as study and go on with living my life instead of tearing myself to piece because I didn’t finish off something I was writing one night because I decided to go to sleep instead, which was a much more (and, quite frankly, less interesting) idea.
I could also just go walk into the ocean, slap a marlin, then get back out of the ocean and then go to sleep.
However, that would probably make too much sense and that’s not something I really intend to do anyway.
It seems like it would require too much effort, and I don’t want to get wet.
The time it took to write one thousand words: 19:03:38
This felt like it took a lot longer than it did.
Despite it being a lot of rambling, I’m fairly satisfied with the result.
Well, sleep time!
Written at home.