Piled next to my keyboard is a stack of bills and a sheet of Batman postage stamps and some reminder notes written in my indecisive, are-you-cursive-or-are-you-print scrawl.
I am quite uninspired by said pile. This is not a case of "I'm in financial denial" so I am ignoring the pile. Nope, not that. It's much, much more a case of "the whole thing feels like a bunch of artificially-created, unimportant nothingness" so I am completely apathetic toward it.
I look at the bills and see the figures and words right in front of me in black and white, but I'm confused. I'm confused, because what are they really? They are arbitrary numbers created arbitrarily by some unknown, arbitrary person who, in turn, sent off the whole thing to some arbitrary person unknown to them (me). That is exactly what the pile is, which means there is no purpose, no meaning, no reality to the pile and the best part of it all is the pile itself knows this!
It's as if this big pile of arbitrary nothingness is crying out to me: "stop typing right this instant, go grab a glass of homemade limoncello, and light me on fire - bills, postage stamps, reminder notes and all!" (Why the pile would want me to burn perfectly good forever stamps escapes me, but I do appreciate its choice of after-dinner drink.)
Now I suppose one could say that my personifying a pile of papers and thinking the pile is imploring me to throw it into a funeral pyre is borderline delusional. Perhaps. But the key word here is "borderline," because as much as I want to, I am not going to stop typing. I am not going to bring the pile outside and light it on fire. I am not even going to grab a cup of homemade limoncello.
Instead, I will be a good little lemming and march head first into a cloud of nothingness. And, assuming I don't fall off a cliff in the process, then and only then will I grab a digestif - the much-needed aid to digestion - though sadly I suspect it will settle nothing.
I am quite uninspired by said pile. This is not a case of "I'm in financial denial" so I am ignoring the pile. Nope, not that. It's much, much more a case of "the whole thing feels like a bunch of artificially-created, unimportant nothingness" so I am completely apathetic toward it.
I look at the bills and see the figures and words right in front of me in black and white, but I'm confused. I'm confused, because what are they really? They are arbitrary numbers created arbitrarily by some unknown, arbitrary person who, in turn, sent off the whole thing to some arbitrary person unknown to them (me). That is exactly what the pile is, which means there is no purpose, no meaning, no reality to the pile and the best part of it all is the pile itself knows this!
It's as if this big pile of arbitrary nothingness is crying out to me: "stop typing right this instant, go grab a glass of homemade limoncello, and light me on fire - bills, postage stamps, reminder notes and all!" (Why the pile would want me to burn perfectly good forever stamps escapes me, but I do appreciate its choice of after-dinner drink.)
Now I suppose one could say that my personifying a pile of papers and thinking the pile is imploring me to throw it into a funeral pyre is borderline delusional. Perhaps. But the key word here is "borderline," because as much as I want to, I am not going to stop typing. I am not going to bring the pile outside and light it on fire. I am not even going to grab a cup of homemade limoncello.
Instead, I will be a good little lemming and march head first into a cloud of nothingness. And, assuming I don't fall off a cliff in the process, then and only then will I grab a digestif - the much-needed aid to digestion - though sadly I suspect it will settle nothing.
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