Sunday, June 12, 2005

Nightswimming, deserves a quiet night.

I can't seem to coax the words out in any semblance of order tonight. The ego within shouts and stamps its feet that there is a story there to be told, if only I would take the time to tell it. During the day, if I'm in the office and am being asked to do something menial, or if someone's rude or off-hand to me, the ego screams 'tell them to fuck off, that you can't even seem them they are so irrelevant. Get your shit together - these pricks are sucking the marrow from your bones'.

Of course, you wouldn't dare disagree with the ego, he's such a bastard, its impossible to tell what he would do. I just let him down with meandering tales that inevitably end up deleted from the hard drive. Last night I was so bored with the insipid conversation and dull playground politics I was witnessing that I got it into my head there was a story lurking close by, ready to be splurged (or if I'm being pessimistic vomited) onto the page.

Bitter taste of failure again, as I sit here vacantly staring at the screen, fingers tapping, making no sense out of words. I consider how like doing the lottery this is - the hope, the daydreams and then, cold, harsh reality that the reality is a piece of useless paper and a sour taste of waste in your mouth.

Maybe one day I'll hit the jackpot.

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