Monday morning. I take forty minutes trying to get out of bed after snoozing multiple alarms over and over and over. I make breakfast, do fifty on the jump rope, linger through my morning ablutions, and run. At work, my timecard says that I am twenty minutes late. I don’t care. I trudge through piles of words and interminable sentences, pen in hand, and leave as soon as the workday’s done. Sometimes I bring a manuscript home or work on it until after midnight in some overpriced coffee shop. I do this not out of sheer interest, but out of loyalty to the person that I think I am — that I was, maybe.
My days pass in a flurry of pages, procrastination, repasts, conversation. What I read, what was said, I seldom remember. Most of the time I stand and walk around with the same songs blaring through the earphones plugged in my head, drowning out the world’s noise. Inside, a steady drone, an angry silence.
I hang out with coworkers, I go out with friends. Their laughter and chatter fly over my head. One stare into the distance for a second too long and my mind is lost in a slush of thoughts that don’t take hold and end in nothing.
I volunteer. To help, I say, to contribute, to build up experience and character. Pretty soon these exertions start to lose meaning and place in my personal valuation, just like the work I do day in and day out, facing a blank wall, eyes ever flitting to the clock.
On weekday evenings I run under canopies of acacia in my alma mater, or go to yoga or spinning classes, lift weights at the gym. Pulse racing, heavy breathing, body aching, sweat streaming — sometimes I feel like I only wake up for this.
Far too often I find myself lying on my apartment’s mahogany floor and staring at the dark ceiling and thinking about all the things I could and should be doing but don’t, or looking out of dusty windows thinking, what the hell am I doing, looking out of this stupid window, or thinking how pretty the sunset is and wishing it would last forever and then wondering how it would be to live under an eternal mauve-magenta sky. I think about clichés.
I think: this is how it is to breathe, bathe, be baked in mediocrity. This is how one eats at the banquet of ennui.
I write nothing.