When, in the course of human events, a blockhead decides to set finger to keyboard and produce words, it's usually because he's bored, is trying to avoid something else, or is emotionally troubled or...up. For lack of a better word.
For reasons yet unknown to myself and the universe at large, I decided to write now because it seemed a rather fun thing to do, compared to the alternatives.
The hard part, for me, isn't writing, but finding something interesting to write about. That or something funny, profound, idiotic, or downright nonsensical. Of the above, at first sight, nonsensical appears easiest. Thus, I proceed.
"But, what?!" I say to myself, "Nonsense? I couldn't think of nonsense were I clouted roundly over the head with a ninepin! Then again, who could?"
As I spake thus to myself, the reader would be well advised to abandon everything and splash his or her eyes with water repeatedly, until such time as their eyes, or any other part of them, ceased forthwith to sting, itch, and generally torment them. Either that or completely leave this horrible narrative on its own.
On the whole, I guess, that's how I approach life.
No.
If that makes any sense to you, congratulations, you're probably also all-knowing, have made a universe, and perhaps even died for the sins of many.
Otherwise, you're probably just guessing.
Regardless, as I sit here, author of some sort that I am, my fingers tapping and jumping to my idiotic desire, I imagine the ways in which my life might be better...the ways I might have done X better, or perhaps why Y hasn't heard from me in half a decade. My life is like that, believe it or not. I have little knowledge of how people think of me that don't know me properly. I get the strangest feeling that they think I'm a danger to all those younger than me, and I've absolutely no idea how they think I relate to those my elder.
Sigh.
It's of some comfort, every now and then, to realize one day I may hear, "Well done, ye good and faithful servant," from a loving, gracious, kind God. Until that day, I'll doubtless be scrounging through the waste of life to find some reason to think I've reason to live.
Not to make things sound to depressing, naturally. My peanut butter sandwich was rather good today. I've got most of my Chemistry done for tomorrow. Ah, tomorrow. Perhaps my least favorite day of the week, next to Monday.
So much happens that day. Yet I say and do so little. Why? Why do I restrain myself, keep myself safe? Well, there it is. For safety's sake. For the fear I have of the unknown.
Hard will it be to construe Noah Bertilson as a fearless explorer.
And why is it that I've been so set on finding someone to marry my whole life? Why couldn't I be satisfied with simply having friends, and hoping only with a mild fondness after the idea of one person, finally, to love and live with for life?
And why is it so hard to burden others with my desires, problems, and fears? It always feels like their lives couldn't get better, and thus spilling my rather befouled one into theirs would be so awfully selfish and terrible.
For one reason I live on; to find out what God's trying to do with/to me. To find out why I can't say ten words together in real life and communicate one idea. Why, instead, I was gifted the ability to communicate in a thousand words one idea so much more clearly, so much more profoundly, and so much more exhaustively. Why in a thousand words online am I effective, when in life it takes dozens, sometimes, to say yes or no?
!Noah!
No comments:
Post a Comment