It’s as if this was written for me. I’m in a comfy chair, waiting for something to happen. It’s only a matter of time before it does. I overheard things months ago that I wish stuck in my head long enough to get them out when I was inspired to sit in a comfy chair and pound out words. But seeing as my long-term memory is inaccessible, I have nothing to share but these words of consternations.

It feels strange to look at this empty page again. It’s not something I’ve done in a while. I barely write e-mail to my friends anymore. I don’t know if it’s work, a loss of motivation, or frustration that I’m not better at this writing thing. I’m just where I am and I wish I had something more to say or do or be. But there you have it. I’m consternating and while I’m not happy about it, I am happy about most other things in my life.

Wow, I forgot how to write. I’m trying to tell a narrative and nothing is coming out. It’s stilted and weird. The caffeine is hitting the spot and my fingers are still moving, but I’m looking for a reason for them to stop. Looking for something else that needs saying to be said.

Where’s the wit? Where’s the insight? Where’s the deep philosophical discussions? Oh, yeah, now I remember. It never was here. It was a bunch of masturbatory bullshit. One wonders why nobody read it. What’s the point? It’s a discussion of what I ate for breakfast in too many words for a person to get through. There was no story and no curvy anythings. I consternated and cried and pretended I could get somewhere if given enough time. I never defined that time and I never approached it. What I did do was keep on typing and hope beyond hope for something that is never here and never will be here.

At least I’m putting words to paper. It’s something I missed when I stopped doing it. I was never doing anything of value. I was pretending to do something but in the end I did nothing. I typed and typed and hoped that something would happen when nothing did. I’ve written that sentence thirty times already.

There’s something there. I know there is. I wait for it to come out to mean something. I have nothing. I love that word, nothing. It’s easier to say that word than to think about anything related to that word.

The consternations come strong. There is nobody who wants to read this, especially me. Okay, I’m the exception. I do want to read this again someday. I want to see what was going through my head when I wrote this. How the caffeine did not find a handhold. How it reached and I tried to pull myself up only to drop down the fifteen feet to the rough ground.

I return to the black on white screen, where the page seems to pop out at me. I don’t know why I like it, but it makes me feel like there is nothing but me there.

The darkness pulls me toward it. I wait for it. I need a character. I need a character with a twist. I never do well with the story or plot. But give me an interesting character and I’ll do nothing interesting with them. So it goes.

The coffee is making me anxious. It is turning me into something that I don’t like. Start over. Show me something that I haven’t seen before. Give me some reason to write. Describe something and take it from there. Or don’t. Think before you write. Writing without thinking is a useless exercise. When you think you may find something useful. Usually not, of course, but it is always possible.

I start with such good ideas, and slowly those good ideas devolve into nothingness.