I’m just not writing these days. My mind is aclutter with useless thoughts. There’s nothing in there worth a tirade of late. There was a time I was filled with irk and ire, intellectual brimstone and fire, and I put it to good use. But lately I’m the cerebral equivalent of an old fortune cookie. I don’t taste very good, and you won’t find anything enlightening inside. So what’s happened? I have a pretty good idea. I’ve been drawn out of my hermitude. I used to have it pretty good; not many friends (that I talked to anyway), and a job that didn’t require conversation. But now… now I’m playing soccer again, which is good in that I’m playing soccer again, but bad in that I’m part of a social circle again, and have less time to do nothing but wonder, surmise, and study quantum physics. I also now have a job that flies in the face of all my hermitic beliefs. I answer a phone for a living, and spend all day every day talking to the kind of people I spent previous years attempting to avoid; the drabbest minds on the spectrum of smarts, the "<" to my ">", those hobbled by crippling inanity. At the end of the day I find myself brooding over the stupidity of my surroundings, instead of postulating, conjecturing, and studying quantum physics.
There was a time I did all of those things with the fervor of an Evangelist, and I’d like that time to return, so I’ve come up with a plan. The last time I found myself in this state it was a dire state indeed. I wasn’t sleeping much at all, drinking cappuccinos like Gatorade, and generally shuffling through my days like a blind deaf mute with his shoelaces tied together. I hit rock bottom. Eventually though, I had a re-awakening, a renaissance if you will, and my mind came racing back like a death proof car, smashing conventional wisdom to bits, and leaving gory, severed limns all over the information highway. My plan now is to plummet back to those depths. I need to hurl myself into the Loneliness Chasm with only my wits and a small pocket knife for protection. I need to immerse myself in my pain once more, to feed off it, and let it feed off me. Maybe a little water boarding of the brain is in order. Then, when I’m convinced I’m drowning, I’ll pick myself back up and write a novel, or maybe a magazine article, that will literaturely blow your minds.
