[A man sits at a computer. Bare floorboards. Wooden chair]
[he speaks] A few pokes and well-wishes and my entire social life completed online, no need to see anyone but the shopkeeper for the next 14 days.
So, what to keep with my unbridled solitude?
A puzzle perhaps.
Solitaire for eternity?
Or something perhaps to grow?
To become the unchallenged master in any field of my choosing.
Or perhaps...a cigarette
[puffs] Begins so easy with a cigarette.
That it could never end.
There's a curious chalice i've received, one that I'm sure is not peculiar to others.
[waits - looks at camera]
The world does not concern me.
It's forever drama of lost and forgotten dreams holds no thrill for me. pretends nothing that sparks me into action.
[drag] Makes me wonder why these dreams exist.
But forever there's this pull to improve our existence.
Is it a joke that such simplicity cannot last forever?
That my days cannot go on in such rich boredom that I am so apt to find myself?
Is it an inner yearning that wishes to bring diversity to existence?
Or a conditioned lurch for novelty whenever we get too close to a point of as silence; even
if we were to ever know which way that was?
I do not mean to say that I am without fear.
I fear impending existence keenly, that so many courses of action could remain fruitful to me if I only had the will and courage to take them.
I would like to think that it's my privileged insight that keeps me here.
Away from the chewing masses: binging on a collective hysteria that keeps them from acknowledging their own utter inconsequence.
No doubt it's fear that keeps them from falling.
But is it really love that also draws them together?
Such calamity if not.
No. My fear is fully acknowledged – although it is one that keeps me very much apart.
I have trouble understanding the utility of social exchange if it is not to beautify or embellish an otherwise sober existence but so few of my friends of companions are able to satisfy this unending itch.
So I accept that these fears exist, within me as in everyone else.
Such a strange thing their existence.
For if they were not, it's almost as if there would be no compulsion to act.
As though the grass being greener is a reason to grow it in the first place.
Perhaps I prefer my rich damp earth...
I am sure that my desires are fully spent.
I have been to the edge of all childish dreams and at each found nothing that appealed, struck me deep, gave me a sense of unfolding destiny.
Though no doubt I expected too much.
Were it not for my fears,
I would be happy sit
and acknowledge a world as it flows before me
– whose beauty may penetrate me on some days more than others,
occasionally allow ugliness to impinge upon me, but that would be it.
Is it simply an idea of 'not' that keeps me from sitting still?
Not going in an ideal direction, not sitting in the right company,
being in the right creative space,
Not living up to some unknown potential?
Surely the greatest potential is that which is unspent?
...
So there's a fear that sits.
Polluting my idleness, daring me to react.
To force myself to overcome its chimera so I may find myself, somewhat distressed, but back in another idle spot contemplating the same question as to why I would be want to leave this place again.
Is my fear really of here?
That my life, so devoid of external stimulation, is truly lacking?
But these things hold no promise for me.
No delight for me.
It's as if I'm a renunciant, though more through an accident of temperament than a conscious putting aside of the worlds ills.
Perhaps...perhaps my lack of action is an ornate excuse
Concealing a fear of doing anything, to go out and experience the juice of the world.
Those things that seem to entertain those 'others' so endlessly.
But I swear to engage in these activities has never seemed to me anything but futile – sometimes a fleeting spark – perhaps a more pleasant sensation in the body for a brief amount of time but nothing I could call joy or pleasure.
No - quite honestly – there is no thing, no place or person – that I could say brings me anything amounting to joy.
It to me nothing but an addiction to drama – an endless ketamine fix to postpone the point where we stop and see that there is no one no thing that sustains us.
And if all these experiences flow before me - none piquing or probing more than another – why wish for such variety at all?
But yet, I am compelled to act
And not stay still
and drink from this chalice that promises nothing but threatens anything i could pretend to hold dear.
Until the day that too melts away and I'll be found ... [loses himself in thought]
[comes back to himself, grinning]
Relaxing in utter futility
Not worry that there was anything else that ought to be done.
To have it dropped.
And effortlessly.
[now go
#]
