Oh, The Blabber

Here I am, sleeping, brooding, listlessly carving ellipses above my head. Or imagining it. Deadly proposition. If I call this moment the present, without further ado, shall I announce that I have already lost it? Someone told me I've grown thin and pale, like a crystal in hell. And that my stubble is not so young and pretty anymore, and deserve to be ungratefully eradicated. Mirror, mirror on the wall, who's the ghastliest of them all? If I, someday, in the un-ideally cluttered universe, cultivate amorous feelings for a scabrous viper, shall I be branded amoral? Then, I must delicately brandish my hammer of defense, and whisper, gently but surely, You suck. I have never quite understood the concept of futility, of frivolous and fatalistic futility, for I'm quite the sunshine in the darkness. Or the darkness in the arse-crack. Either way, I believe in overwhelming the opposition, beautifully and subconsciously, by pretending to be flexible. Ah, insincerity. Bring it on. Potloads and jarfuls. Ah, quite the word. Insincerity. Tell me, invisible reader, and I beseech you to be sincere while you contemplate : Can there be anything more insincere as sincerity itself? How can you be sure self-deception is not a natural phenomenon, or opposite-polarity shards of consciousness, aiding or mis-aiding perception? To talk in absolute terms would be downright silly, in my humble opinion. The word is Humble, dear reader. Grimace sesame.

Now that the universe is seething with silence, and the airconditioner in my cousin's room has subsided to a soft, almost indecipherable swoosh, I'm reminded of the oppressive trick-question every thinker formulates to relieve himself of his role : Are not words empty? For words are not enough. Not enough. And I feel sleepy.

Ah, the deception. Goodnight, anyway.