Pastiche: File Under.

I’ve been wanting to write something for a while now. A book, specifically. Not for any grand reason. Not for publication, or fame, or recognition. I am too cynical and sinister on myself to expect any of that nonsense. Just to write one. To create something. I’ve been saying to myself that I’ll do it. When? Then! The oldest line in the book. A lot of my time – okay, almost all of my waking free time – is dedicated to Omega Level. The continuous churning of information, the rampant persistent pastiche of shit that I suppose myself and more importantly the small but dope as fuck and tight-knit community here will enjoy.

I wake and I blog and I go to campus and I blog and I go to the gym and I blog and I hang out with friends and I blog. At the end of the day I feel a bit fried and I don’t really want to read, let alone write. The synapses are sapped and my mind just wants to dull out within the confines of a video game or various varieties of wandering websites. I don’t know if this is an excuse for why I don’t create something of my own, a legitimate reason, or C) Other. As someone who constantly the Gray Meridian when it comes to almost anything ideological or philosophical, it’s probably C. But that makes things terribly confusing, dunnit?

Anyways, all of that is irrelevant because I don’t have a plot. Nothing rockets into my skull-pipe. The angels, in fact, do not sing. Though I look up at them with palms raised, they do not look back down. Probably busy fucking hookers and drinking Millenia-old wine. I hope you know that’s what they do up there. Why do you think there’s so many genocides and holocausts and floods unabated? They party like fucking rockstars up in the Heavens. Of course they’re not going to answer me.

I  oscillate  between expecting the plot to come to me on the crapper some day and trying way too hard to conjure something up. I reckon I’ll either be Red Faced and Grunting after yet another dehydrated dump and right about the point where I’m about to pop a blood vessel from rectal shovery it’ll come to me. Or!, or perhaps this is more romantic. I’ll hole up in my room and dim the lights and pound caffeine and stare into an MS Word document and I’ll brainstorm the next great American novel.

In fact, I don’t even know why I’m typing this. I promise to myself on more than one occasion to not talk about myself here on Omega Level. The idea that there is anything bubbling up from the precipices that overlook my psyche that is worth sharing is an egotistical moment that I vomit when thinking about. Oh yes sure I’ll be happy to jack it till its red over one of my hobbies or past times. That’s it, though. That’s it! That’s it. The thoughts dont’ come, the days past.

I’m not miserable, I’m just saying. The great caffeine-fueled vomit doesn’t get written.

I wrote a book once. Over three-hundred pages. It was simple. I just fictionalized my twenties and sent it on its way. It’s dog shit. The sort sloppy wandering mindless aberration, slight on the Gods of Editing that has forced it to sit in a folder for the past three years. Dust will come! Bits and bytes will be siphoned off it as I move it around its digital confines. It will not be seen. This does not matter. When I look back on the writing of the book, I feel that sort of completeness that I don’t get anywhere else. Eons pass, my meatsac withers, but I created something.

I want to do that again.

It’s nice, really. If you create something, there’s a certain fantastical element to it. To be able to continuously create, that is a gift I do not seem to have. There is no point to this post, other than to flex muscles that are typically reserved for mashing out three-hundred word news posts in a minute and a half. Atrophied pale little muscles, but muscles none the less. If there had to be a thesis statement tacked onto this, if you will, it would be to go out and create something. I don’t care what it is. Try to do it regularly. Draw a picture, build a candy castle, it really doesn’t matter. Build something in your mind and then give wind to it out here in existence. No one can take that shit away from you, and if you genuinely love it, it’ll make you tingle.

I promise.