Nothing

When nothing much comes to mind this is what happens.

My blog is about nothing interesting really, just an instinctive literary opinion about the vacancy of a passing moment, and the thoughts that seem to slip by incognito in tow with the un-matriculated narrative. Like those fleeting ones between handling the wheel through traffic and radio-surfing on the way to work, to the precious gap after doing dishes and tucking the day away in bed as the weight of watching all the crap on TV becomes a subliminal itch for something recently frustrating that kipping early is an unexpected greeting. I got hung up on a sentence not so long ago whilst procrastinating my way through a writing road block, of which the plot and basis of the writing road was somewhere between just-out-of-town and miles-from-the-maps-edge, in other words another instinctive lapse into writing about nothing, which wasn’t the purpose of the initiative. I saw the letters and the words they eventually constituted as mere strokes and symbolic markings not literary constructs to a passage of expression. I felt a clarity of observation so primal that it overtook the function of memory and trained application. The word the seemed structurally similar to a house the way it formed an apex and sloped away to t and e, and house was considered too closely in appearance to mouse that a small word gnawing rodent was unique to my loss of perspex to the relevance of the correspondence at hand. A roadent mind block. However, this upon reflection has lent to an interesting development for the tendency to write about and think about, nothing. The deliberation seems accrediting, in a precipitous way, now that writing about nothing according to the deconstructed version of my technique to write about something, has fostered some informal point of opinion, even if it is nothing over-archingly relevant to anything particularly really, albeit nothing. Well, maybe my apparent lacuna for wasting time harping on about it, which is something if you really look into it. The singularity of thought presiding over a tendency to write about nothing seems an anti-thesis to writing about something meaningful, relevant, entertaining, which gives weight to the writing-road-block scenario as a manifestation of one’s tendency to wonder-off in times of focus. The genesis of such behavior is open to debate and even controversy. Circumstantial elements are favorably included. For example scheduling yourself to write at a convenient time according to your cultured lifestyle may be counterproductive to producing something meaningful if thinking about nothing during these inefficient stanzas is the trend. An introduction of self-imposed discipline would be beneficial you would think, but in my experience this only leads to more stimulated nothing narrative. My paradoxical plot. Nothing. Endangering ones life could explicitly lead to something dramatic, at worst, presuming one’s life was not negotiated for it. This would open a Pandora’s box, even a labyrinth of something to write about, a reckless and audacious approach for the sake of literally burgeoning your experience for appreciation and perhaps exoneration of controlled emotion. Self-harm is an unintended form of inspiration here, although the thought of enacting out such lunacy has often manifested after the occasional proof-read. Tempting fate would be an ironic chronicle to the art of writing about nothing then, as the inevitable mind constraints of writing about something diminish into nothing the apparitions of fate and tempting it resemble reality. The Nothing Narrative. I often think about nothing you could say. As nothing does in fact become something, the materialization of imagination, eventually. And it is eventually on the realms of eventuality that these passing moments preside, that moments of nothing metasyllabillize to something where nothing used to be, an apparent indeterminate portion of ones aberration of a nothing moment awaiting trans-something-isation. But yet nothing persists and resists. A nothing nuance of tangled thoughts and jig-sawed constructs of memories and new ideas jostling for a chance to inspire a nothing moment, a parody of eclipsing observations deregulated by a wondering eye and mind leading to a crescendo of blank repositories that embellish nothing. Is forgetfulness another weapon in the nothing arsenory? Maybe, it has been suggested it is the beneficiary of age, and according to some pundits therefore, the antithetical of wisdom. Frustration is a common thread here, where the perverse anguish of awaiting inspiration can permeate via either affliction. And transform a smooth complexion and demeanor into a wrinkled shadow of its former self. However it’s nothing to write home about, I’m neither old yet or Alzheimic, they are mere observations that transpire to recollection, sporadically regurgitated, during phases of writing. Like now. My augmented Nothingness. Depression was once a gateway to the void that I felt comfort in. The Nothing. Fleeting passages of time interlaced with stagnant, causeless, meaningless, prolonged, and hurting epochs of time, where literally time stands still. Being self-aware and observationary not judgmental and reasoning, lies at the edifice of one’s ability to sustain a comforting delusion, to nullify depression. A balsa-wood shroud of self-confidence the fickle resistance to being a tangent warrior in the public domain where ultimately everything is something but yet something is nothing, superficially transposed by depressions ability to nullify emotion and amplify observation, flippantly exposing reality to or from the nothing portal, which delectably denies non-existence. Nothing can be imperceptible to some and everything to others. The universal subject of nothing is indeed delectable, for the rules of engagement are simple, for me, I automatically sync into daydream mode, where the fearfulness of reality biting refracts to a protoplasmic endorphin that uncomplicates rules and widens eyes, without order and meaning, chaotically refreshing, subterranial in comprehension, therefore without comprehension, and only here, now, articulating about nothing.

To be continued whilst something interupts...

Reviews

[WriterMe]

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Its either I am too ashamed to say it but I didnt understand most of it. Which I hope is the point otherwise I swear to god, the English language fails me. Haha but i must say, the use of ideas was well...err... presented.
I think I'll read more of your works to challenge my comprehensive ability. =]