I want to post about anything that doesn’t matter. I want to write about the latest episode of Heroes. I want to complain about the trivialities of my day job. I want to go on and on about all the the little things that say nothing about who I am and what I’m going through and how I feel… I want to post endlessly about this silly publishing thing I’ve taken on, and never mention what it all means to me. Hide behind a facade of meaninglessness (did I ever tell you I would have preferred this place be lessness.com, that then I could have a rotating prefix with words like meaning, hope, joy, and point taking turns at the top of the page? Alas, lessness is someone’s book about living simply), disappear, distract, with the equivalent of small talk.
I’ve never been very good, for very long, at small talk. It always manages to feel like a lie to be saying so much without saying anything at all. Which is not to say I’m not accomplished at it; simply that it feels bad to engage in it for long.
The arms of the clock loom over me as these words trickle out, as I stared for hours at an empty window, not able to type… I took my laptop, with that empty window staring at me, to bed last night and … and nothing. I ended up turning it to face the wall, so I could get some peace out from under the menacing stare of the blank page. I woke up this morning and it was still there, still empty. I’ve been working on this for an hour, I need to leave for work soon, I ought to be making lunch, the seconds tick by like accusations of another day, week, month, without posting much of anything of substance. Having to get to a day job at a certain time isn’t an easy excuse, that I didn’t have time to write, it’s a dreadful deadline, that I don’t have time to write what needs to be written.
So here’s a post that’s less. Less than small talk. Less than meaninglessness. Another post about not posting. What could be less than this?