The War on Blatancy
I am so sick of it.
I’m so tired of waking up every afternoon and placing my hands into the chains fitted for my wrists. The ropes and cables tied to my ankles have felt slightly tighter these past few weeks, but what’s a little constriction gonna hurt? My pride? Oh please…
It’s the collar around my neck that really gets to me. The collar is the only part of my afternoon wardrobe I leave on throughout the night, just in case I awake. For even if I am only awake for an instant, my collar makes certain that I am immediately reminded of my captivity. Now I mustn’t let you think for a moment that I am held against my will. That would surely be no more than a bright, flashing scream for pity. No sir, I am willingly captive to my Slave Master Indolence. And oh my, does he ever treat me well…
That. That right there is what I’m sick of. I’m so content living in bondage. My mouth is gagged and I tied the knot.
I find myself in an awkward position. I stand tall for all to see, but with nothing left to show. I point behind me and quote my hindsight bias, but the crowd that gathered but moments before dwindles down to merely number one and two. “Look Here!” I say, “Come watch me gather more and more!” But once I’ve gathered numbers three and four, they begin to ask “What for?” I surround myself with many bodies, but do I have a single word to say? The answer, as always, is a simple “Yes!” because it’s true, I have one phrase. The words I speak unto the crowd are “I have nothing to teach you, nothing at all. But if you could kindly ask that gentleman by the tree to come yet steps closer, he could hear me tell him I’ve nothing to say.”
I guess I just miss the feeling of re-reading my grammar and hearing other’s applause. Sure that’s selfish, but wait, there’s more! I amused myself and felt while I was writing that every sentence was purely original. Right now I feel every word has been used, every sentence re-written, every vowel pronounced and all of it stale and bland. I don’t want more praise. I don’t want more readers. Despite what I’ve said, I mean more than I write.
For what I lack most of all ever since my mind began working, is the image of a masked man known as Conundrum groping a whore called Abstruse in a dark, dark alley of the streets my mind painted in gray. I have long since arrested the Whore and placed the masked man behind bars. But would it kill me to kill the judge named Lucid?
I do not intend to cheapen any former work, or place a price on any pieces before those recent, I simply want to say all these words, and make it to the end of the page.
I guess I’ve grown far more lazy than I first assumed. Because in writing this meaningful nonsense I can clearly see what I gladly settle for: a half a page of rewording what I wrote the night before. Maybe my words taste stale on their way out because the cables I tie to my ankles and wrists keep me from leaving my bedside. Sure I clasp the locks in place and work to better myself as an individual before God, but who do I run to when my legs give out? Who do I ask for help when I’m left with 37 minutes of silence? I’ve grown so close to Idle and Sloth, both have grown roots on my shoulders. Both whisper beautiful words that sound hollow but smell of wild flowers. I smile to myself as the odor rots my teeth, but who cares, the masses left months ago.
I refuse to waste time, and that’s where my paradox lies. I’m far too busy doing nothing to begin to do anything that’s something.
“Sergeant, target in range. Your command?”
“Let’s see where he takes this, give him but a moment. Let’s see how his aim has improved.”
In order to free myself from these chains, I must commit to spending time wasting it. Although, not in the way I’ve been doing for years, but in the way I’ve done but a few times. It’s been far, far too long and yet what do I have from the time? A handful of articles I keep close to my heart, but no more than the bread and butter. I always stop short and wait months for more dinner, oh why mister, why must I dawdle?
I guess the only closing appropriate is to start from the top, scroll up to the first word of “I” my dear friend, and try not to focus on it much. Because too much attention to detail up there will show you the perspective in which I began. But I guess if you must notice, I can’t stop you, re-read that small word one more time. But in hopes you forgive me for wasting your time, I hope to shift gears just a bit. Take a look at the end, go ahead skip ahead, I’ll keep your spot here at this dot. You see it? You see it? The only thing that hasn’t changed? My inward dissection of my motives and products was still written only for that. I want to bring pleasure, amusement and wonder, to those eyes and questions and reviews to those lips. You see, it’s not that my talent died away when my mind came to life, but rather that I locked it away. How easy it is, nay how fun it may be, to simply not care to write worth. I can always find something more important to do, I can always find shiny bright sound to amuse. But in the end when my head hits the pillow, do I feel any satisfaction at all? I guess that’s the question I’d rather not answer, so I’ll leave the blank empty to fill.
This took a long time to write and I’m happy to say, that it’s been a huge waste of time from the start. You’ll reach the end my dear Reader and wonder, “What was it he resolved in his heart?” But I guess that’s number two I won’t answer, I’ll leave the blank empty to fill. And tha8\t’s only because I’ve recently heard rumors of that dark little alley mentioned briefly before. In that dark little alley the masked man and whore used to use while they used up each other, there was found a small shred of red clothing, see-through yet thrown off by a crafty man’s pair of black gloves. It may be a story spread by lonely peasants, or rich nobles searching for a new headline. But all I can say is there may be some truth to it, and if so, then I guess “Cheers! Here’s to
You!”