shmeerios3-blog

[shmeerios3-blog]

February 13, 2017

Another day has passed in the monotonous life of the child, with little to no variation in the span of the last 24 hours. The child debated doing another entry likewise to the stream of consciousness of the day before, but after mindlessly watching many episodes of an animated television series by the name of Futurama, he decided to write it as what else was he going to do. Also the internet went down, so the next ten minutes might as well be spent partaking in this thankless and pointless activity. What is there to be gained from writing down one’s thoughts in that very moment? Contradictory to a diary in which the writer reflects on the past events of that day, the child merely writes down his own thoughts in those very ten minutes typing away at his white keyboard, placed on his lap, anything that comes to his mind. Self-reflecting perhaps, but not substantially. To anyone that reads this, for whatever reason, they would probably be under the assumption that this seventeen year old boy is attempting to use scholarly vocabulary and advanced writing skills in order to perceive a persona of higher intelligence. They would probably be correct in that assumption. But is there something inherently wrong about that? An author could just want to give off a higher sense of character by at least pretending to sound like he or she knows what they are talking about. The child surely doesn’t. He merely looks down at the white rectangle and presses buttons. As he wrote the sentence preceding this very one, he recalled that he had yet to take out the garbage bag filled with that day’s muck and junk and unwanted treasures. Again, a sentence basically saying, “He needs to throw out the trash,” has been extended into a much more complex form of writing for no good reason. Will these journals per say become a daily occurrence? Highly doubtful, as with everything else in the child's life that has filled him with a sense of ambition, it will last but a day or two. This day being two. The next day he will probably rather spend it watching another hour of television gaining nothing more than being able to see the clock slip away between his fingertips. There was a gap in between sentences there. The child has nothing of importance to say. Another pause. Obviously the child must stop writing, set the keyboard down, and rest for the next couple of hours in order to begin the monotony yet again. But something keeps bringing him back. He finally looks up at the computer screen and notices how much he has written. A sense of self satisfaction as earlier stated has come back to him now and the child wants to type faster and faster and from the corner of his eye he notices the veins in his hand slowly pulsate intertwining in-between his very bones pulsing as each finger reaches from one key to the next. The pause returns now. The clock now whispers in his ear once, twice, and three more times. The realization has retuned that this writing is pointless, lacking in any form of sharpness or keen distinctness to differentiate itself from any other teenager’s personal angsty diary. The child is merely spewing out emotions and feelings maybe too complex to state through the human tongue, teeth and lips. Millions of other children lie on their bed at this very moment writing down their very own personal thoughts in their sacred and most heart felt journals filled with their crushes and high school dramas. A realization suddenly strikes the child's head. The year is 2017, no sane child would dare touch a diary. Ancient technology as it will. An ancient form of writing. Jotting down one’s personal feelings down, page by page, carefully inking them away across the fine sheet of paper. A lost art. Thoughts are nowadays thought up once, and if not sent through a emoji filled text, are lost forever. Lost in deep space paralleling the minds of a hormone induced teenager. Rambling is a common occurrence. What has thus been written must be hard for a third party to understand, as it lacks a sense of purpose or direction, there is no key structure or skeleton to this writing. The ligaments that string this body together simply don’t exist, with only broken tendons here and there, and when seen in the broader picture reveal nothing but a pile of bones, open for anyone to interpret. Most of these statements are bear and dull with no deeper thought but others could hide something deep inside them, maybe even something of intellectual capacity. A car drove by the child's window and as it sped away it completely sidetracked and threw off course the boy's train of thought. What better way to end another stream of consciousness than with a completely jarring conclusion without any proper transitions. The child had to look up the word for connecting paragraphs, being transitions. Truly the train was long gone. Will the child write another one of these tomorrow? That is yet to be seen, but as usual the child must now resume to his dull business further continuing on his monotonous life.