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It’s weird. I don’t want to do anything, but I don’t really want to do nothing as well. I can’t sleep because I just had a cup of coffee. So there’s that. Where does this leave me? Nowhere. Doing nothing. Nada. Zilch. Zero. Nothing. I’ve been shaking both my legs long enough for it to be boring, for it to develop into some kind of illness already. I’m so bored. Caffeine is surging within every vein in my body and I can’t stop it. I want to move, but I also don’t want to. Give me something to do, and I’ll gladly not do it. Maybe I will, but not now. I’m really just writing this as I go. I want to talk to someone, but I don’t want to bother anyone. I want to talk to the girl I like, but maybe she’s busy doing things I think she’s doing but maybe really isn’t. Maybe she’s bored too. Maybe she wants to put off her work too for a while. I dunno. This is turning to be some kind of writing exercise for me. It’s nice. Without me knowing – well, the realization just hit me now so I kinda know already, but writing all of this has now left me doing something. I stop the shaking of my feet and proceed to harness all of my energy into writing these words that might not even make sense in the long run. But that’s okay because this is practice for my writing. Maybe with this, I’m creating a voice that only I can write down. It’s nice. It’s wonderful to have nothing to do, just so I can write about it. I’m blessed to have been given this time to write. I love writing. I love meandering. I love the Japanese music that’s playing in the background as I write this nonsensical piece for the audience that is you. You as in myself because you’re the only one who’ll be reading this. If you’re not who wrote this, then you’re in luck, because that means I actually had the balls to show this to people. That would mean that I found this piece of writing to be good, or passable, at the least. So there’s that. I wrote something because I didn’t have anything else to do. It’s nice, it’s nice. But it’s not. I hate putting off work. Right now, however, I don’t care. I hate that I don’t care, but also I don’t want to do anything about it. Do you know what I mean? I don’t know how else to explain it. I guess you could say that I’m writing this in order to feel productive, writing down fake notes to make myself appear as if I have such a creative mind. Maybe it is heightened because I’m giving myself shit for it, too. So I don’t know why. I don’t. But it’s okay. It’s nice. It’s nice. I want to read a comic book, maybe even a novel, but not right now. I’m busy writing. I’m busy with my fake writing. I hate this. I hate you. I hate how I end up thinking about you. I hate doing nothing. I hate how my days were filled with love in each passing minute back when you were still around. I fucking hate it. It’s not nice, not nice at all. Now I am here, writing my fake-ass writing written for no one. I guess you too can give me shit for this piece of writing. Maybe you see it as some lazy work crammed into a pile of shit, but really, there’s some thought put into this, albeit coalesced in such a disorganized manner. I mean, do good thoughts have to be laid out so well to begin with? Maybe, sure, I guess. But I also believe in tiny bits and pieces of genius, even if it is within a pile of crap. I mean people find gold in the mud, so maybe that applies here as well. Maybe there’s some genius in all the stupid which is this writing. I don’t know. You tell me. It’s nice, I think. It’s nice.
V 