The Last Wordslinger

I don't normally do this particular style of writing. However, I'm in a mood today, so I figure I'll give it a try.

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This empty room.

Every night this room feels more and more empty.

The white walls splashed with yellow light, combining to create a sickening ambience. The walls, half decorated and half completely bare, further the sinking feeling in my stomach. Half of these walls were left bare for a reason, though it be long forgotten now.

Now...now any semblance of a desire to hang up the various posters, pictures, whatever other useless meaningless crap is all but gone.

The floor, though carpeted, still proved hard as concrete beneath me. My back ached. My neck ached. I ignored it as I continued to stare at the luminescent screen of my nearby laptop. On it droned on the same videos and same shows that I always watched.

My life proved pretty boring at times like these.

In my mind raged the neverending desire to DO something.

LEARN French.

BUILD your steampunk outfit.

MAKE videos for you blog.

WRITE those scripts you need to finish.

It screams out relentlessly to a body and heart that have no desire to act. I see no point. Why do I see no point? Couldn't say?

Depressed? Maybe. The possibility is too great to ignore.

Can anything be done? Maybe. Clinical help is expensive and untrained friends and associates can only do so much.

My mottled collection of action stare at me from their perch across the room. All of them forever stuck in whatever pose I chose for each of them, all of them forever fated to sit there in each others company until I either outgrow them or lose them.

"What am I doing with myself?"

The quiet of the room, of the apartment at 1am, answered back with a resounding silence.

At times, I contemplated my own death. Sometimes it was, in fact, thoughts of suicide. Other times, it was thoughts of what my funeral would look like, who would attend, what would happen to me after death...the typical combination of self and existential questions that everyone asks about their own demise.

I am wholly unoriginal when it comes to this.

Then again, there is only so much originality and creativity when can have when it comes to the unknown. Though, I suppose, one could argue that the unknown would provide a much broader canvass on which to create.

Then agian, I'm not a painter.

I'm sure Julia would agree with the latter statement of the above paragraph. She likes to think in the abstract. It comes with the mindset she revels in.

She's currently planning a camping trip this weekend. This saddens me even more because it was something her and I were supposed to have done together while we were together and we never got the chance...or maybe I didn't try hard enough to do it. Regardless, she's getting to do it now, and good for her, I guess.

So here I lay.

And lay.

And lay.