The Something of Nothingness
When I write, I write about something — a day in a bastard’s life, a tragic comedy, a comic tragedy, a poem, an essay, a whitepaper, an emotion succinctly portrayed in polysyllable words. Today is different; I can’t find anything to write about. But that will not stop me from writing something, because when you think about it, I can write about nothing and you will see it as something. Here’s the something of this day’s nothingness, captured in less than a minute. Ready?
tick The blankness of the digital page tock staring at you from your monitor tick appalls you, rendering your fingers frozen tock above the keyboard in stupefaction. tick Face it — you can’t write anything, tock much less a dazzling piece tick of literature (literature governed tock by you, omphalos of the world). tick After all, the cursor blinking tock on-screen is your Freudian id, insistent tick and irksome to an extent, prompting tock you to type something, weave tick something from nothingness. tock Heed your blinking id, gratify tick the primal writer in you, delve deep and type, tock type type type, then dress up tick your writing with fonts (times new roman tock or comic sans?), breathe into it tick red passion, green freshness, black tock simplicity, then decide if you’ll tick skew it to the right, to the left, or tock be page-centric as your egoist self. tick Take your time, decorate your writing tock as you would yourself (admit it). tick But when you’re done, better make sure tock it’s good without the appurtenances tick (blame your blinking id!), because tock the unadorned text is nothing but tick you. tock
[Adapted from my poem written this very day, titled "It’s Cliché"]
