BloggingTo Myself

9th January, 2014

Coffee, half a cinnamon role, same news I heard last night, yesterday afternoon, every outlet on the planet.

Stayed in bed so long don’t have time to work on my novel before work. Maybe I should just write poetry. Short, malleable, vague. Mysterious and deep, like Ulysses or a computer chip. Alas.

I could believe in something. Get a reason to get up, daily chores with aplomb, happiness. It’s a new year, after all.

Don’t get me wrong. There’s lots of fascinating things in the world to occupy time. And time’s, my time anyway, is finite, a necessary condition of mortality, uh, meaning.

I could believe in something. Helps with family relations, standing in the community, lessens tension at cocktail parties. Path of least resistance.

Another cup of coffee, half a cinnamon role, same news as last night, yesterday, same stories all over the planet.

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