For the dearth of any form of conceivable keenness to arouse me, the spaciousness in my mind manifested in the words I put on the pages. I whine about something that would be an unimaginable benediction to the orphan and dejected in those countries I won't travel to, and feel sympathetic to them like to animals in the farm I once touched and dream of their being my equal.
It seems to me that a tremendous portion of my functionality serves only to other functionalities. The breakfast I eat, the milk I drink which I lack the proper DNA to process, in turn become my unfeeling at solving calculus problems that already have an definite answer, or simply pressing the buttons on my costly calculator. I imagine those expenses replaced by indolence, so that my fruitless consumption can dwindle and my useless output can continue to be what pushes others to fill in the forms or put the coins meticulously in the slot on the bus. I don't have any idea how long the distance I've walked, but it's evident to me that I only reach out when I need the subsistence of humanity, and then carry with me prey awaiting to become the excrement next morning or the shudder of dream tonight. A contented man without greed has the jewels like those had by dragons for no pragmatic purpose other than more content.
The insistent noise of the drilling machine down the stairs suggests some vestigial part of the former construction was in the way, and therefore should be discarded. But the interesting thing is that because I have the vague impression that I've been there, I relate to it some unmeasurable degree. I'm feeling sorrier for the crash of a stone than for the millions suffering starvation and abuse. The situation irks me, but I can't be chastised or reprimanded, for I was irked by myself and that's always fine. I have those expressions I fail to express, and I gaze downwards with a palm on cheek, thinking that those future historians will be able to notice something my contemporaries or I don't.
When Fitzgerald was walking on the streets on New York and my memory was digging through the Earth to reach him, he subsequently wrote something memorable and elegant in his prose. I cannot. For Fitzgerald at least walked on those streets, at least live in New York that could provide him with some inspiration, and more than that, for concomitant with those inspiration is an entourage of tastes and reflections, which I don't have. I woke up today, brushed my teeth, did test problems, ate, sat, and that's everything I did. I endured the noise in the mist by listen to rock music, and gloat that with this magical blend I created something not only magical to me but also to some hypothetical and existential things that share with me a same threadbare expectation.
I sometimes want a huge barcode on my rooftop so that my information can be obtained through Google Earth, but I'm baffled and recoil for there are some troubles beyond solution. The first is that putting a barcode on the rooftop involves climbing to the rooftop, and I lack the interest to. The second is my rooftop was only a small one from a small city, not from Time Square. The third is that by the time I clean up schedule and prepare all the leisure, I will have forgotten to do so and instead play some game on my computer or take a nap. These told the way I feel it, of that chronicle negligible absurdity, of a bitterness stems from the willingness to feel bitter. I'm angry and I want to cry, or play basketball, but I am always on the verge of tears and reluctant to walk to the court or to get my basketball aerated. My body is wearied from all the activities I've never done and will never do. How pathetic, how insensible! Not only my attributes, but also the fact that no one but me glance at them.
I went to the bathroom, the peripheral place at this moment, and came back to resume the writing, the few things I don't know if they're valuable, and other disdainfully picayune and workday. I spend time in its divisions and deem some of them are more important and assign them with priority. But when I return from other, less fashionable divisions and take up the more important ones, I find out that the importance is only hallucinatory. For example, the semi-diary I'm composing now resumes nothing, begins nothing, and ends nothing. Only for my presumptuousness does it becomes worth doing. And I do it only because I know everything is worth doing out of my presumptuousness.
A rare bird in the drizzle just flew by my uncertain window, and that represents not the bird flying, but also the sensation of my seeing the bird flying, all in my appreciative and elliptical inclusion, that bears the wound of my unfinishable battle.
