I just realized something.

When considering whether to open up a story I've been writing and add to it, I realized I really didn't want to. I don't just want to ignore it this minute; I'm not interested in finishing it at all. Slowly I watched my current story be placed in the category of all my other unfinished stories.

So what else could I write? I got nothing. There is nothing that interests me enough to write about. This thought scares me to no end. When I thought this, I sat there almost shaking with dread at the idea that there's no point to writing anything at this time.

I mean it's all pretty much been done and written, hasn't it? Even my ennui is a cliche. I could write a poem about it, but the whole "everything is nothing" motif has been run into the ground. I could book myself at venues and start singing about it, but how many bands in just about every musical genre out there are already screaming to us about how bored/ angry /depressed they are? "Oh well, whatever, nevermind." I mean, really - we've all seen Office Space several times by now.

Maybe one thing I could do is start reading some more; perhaps that would jump start my desire to write again. That, or I could just get a job at a coffeeshop somewhere and spend all my free time playing video games. Nah, screw it. I'm just going to sit here on my couch and watch [adult swim].

listening to: nothing. nirvana. then more nothing.
in my sink: old coffee.