and This is What I've Been Reduced To

Sometimes I write things. I could go on about how this happens, assign some sort of artful metaphor to the scribbling I make across pages, but I’m not that refined: I type. Everyone types now, and it’s hard to romanticize the harsh clacking of black keys and the glow of a trillion pixels. There’s not much that is romantic anymore.

The coffee slides down my throat, bitter with hints of hazelnut. I don’t know why I drink the flavoured stuff; I’m sure I could do some sort of analysis on coffee-culture, but I’m not in class and, quite frankly, I’m not in the mood. Right now, I just want mindless drabble.

And more coffee.

I stand, passing my stereo on the way out my door. It’s blasting some Bullet tunes: I’m not sure what made me choose their screamo ballads today. I’ve only been here a month, but I already have the path from my bed to the coffeepot ingrained. I could do this asleep. Heck, I probably have.

A quick rinse and my cup is white once more. A quick pour and it’s a steaming cup of darkest brown.

Before I know it, cup numero deux is done, and there’s still not a word in Word. That’s fine; I’ve still got tomorrow to finish my essay. And start it. But that’s something I tend not to dwell on. So instead I listen to my music. Bullet is still screaming at me to do, well, whatever it is emo kids do these days. Slit my wrists, lament lost loves, buy a black shirt from Hot Topic.

Sometimes I think I’m too judgmental. Funny, for a guy who claims to hate prescribed labels and the connotations that go with them. Whoops, I think I’m going academic. Next thing you know I’ll be pulling out words like semiotics and cultural relativism and abjection. You never get away from it, really: it’s all a giant web, spanning the spaces between the different disciplines, with a fat spider of shared terms spinning that web.

I told you that there wasn’t much romance in metaphors any longer. Or maybe that’s just Bullet speaking. Time to shut them off.

And so I sit at my netbook, staring at Word, and suddenly realize that there are words there, in Word. My fingers have been moving this whole time, just as Declan’s do when he thinks of Lily. I’d arch an eyebrow, now, if I could.

Well, this is the result. And for the record, I change my vote to Thoth.

The End

21 comments about this work Feed