window

he groans to himself in the darkness of his room on the temperate Cleveland dawn. A mini twilight occuring on the window sill that always becons the sound of those early drivers towards Downtown. Thoughts of what exactly he plans on writing flow in and out of his headd as the dawn quickly approaches. His thoughts encompassed by some indie band he found on random to be very expressive but subtle enough to give his brain room to interpret his ridiculous emotion. "ridiculous emotions?" he murmurs to himself in the darkness of his one bedroom apartment high up in his apartment building, he always felt the high 16th floor level he was on was somehow symbolic to his type of lifestyle but he could never really figure out why or even what it was. But he alwasy felt it was whenever he would sit alone, beer in his hand after hosting a few guests and the playlist he made finally plays itself out as he stands alone in his apartment staring down at the still busy city. He shakes his head rapidly realizing how far his thoughts have gone on a tangent of mere speculation made him think about the logic behind hi- WHAT THE HELL AM I LISTENING TO he utters, a phrase that that really just comes out as one thickk, semi-coherent grunt, almost immediately grabbing his phone, a second ago the artist he just discovered was perfect turns out it was just the one song. a quick playlist change will do the trick and soon, his brain is filled with familiarity, but sadly, with it, mundanity. He continues to attempt to pry open that proverbial third eye and see into his own thoughts and have them appear on this screen set in front of him. But maybe the fact that he started this writing on a whim, a far cry from the famous non-fiction blog writer he was featured as a couple of years ago in some obscure local magazine he barely new existed, gives a logical explanation on why exactly he feels so stumped. Slowly drudging through each sentence, he tries almost forcibly so to give the- what was it anyway. a blog, an article, a short story, just another exercise performed in haste as we begrudgingly move towards death?- any type of substance or in the least a sort of concrete thematic value. But now he is so drawn by the short article that even the fact that he can barely think divergently really a major part of this creation if his. The obviously stuttered out character of the sentences can later on be analyzed by some random english teacher who has a class a students believing he is clearly reading too much into it. His thoughts immediately fall on "Death of the author" some essay he read a day ago the question the roles of the critique and the author and their views of a work or body of works. But he does not want to allude to such a clearly pretentious attempt to take a stab at coming off as acedemic, not because of some deeply engrained morale code (or writers equivalent to a morale code), but simply because it feels a little too simple, he always felt, if you want to come off as smart then do it in an attempt to make a conversation, not because you wasnt to prove to the next person that you are better than them. He stops midway through a thought and looks left towards the window, the faint sound of an embulance penetrates his earpieces during a silence in his playlist, provoked by the siren, he is now staring out the window into the little part of the Cleveland downtown skyline he can see from his window at this angle, paralyzed by the blankness of his brain as he continues this exercise in pointlessness, he searches the corners of said window, assuming maybe some modicum of inspiration exists in those stained corners. Really, all that's there is the poof if his lack of cleanliness juxtaposing his necessity for order, shown in this case by the neatly laid out shoes under the window as well as his neatly laid out desk. On realizing he has been staring at the window almost one whole song, he jolts and turns to his computer staring at this behemoth of a paragraph laid out in front of him. With his eyes he quickly mentally notes where he plans on cutting it up to make paragraphs. The task proves undeniably boring as his mind swing out into some random thought of a text he sent out last night and the response he got in return, but happenings a little too unsubstantial to exist anywhere outside that mental junk drawer the cleans itself out each morning. flummoxed by indecision as too whether he should or should not continue, he turns to get up and catches a glimpse of his very faint shadow that has been trekking across the room and now right next to him, in the such a way that his imagination humors the idea that it is staring back at him. It is one of those moments when all of your concepts of reality are lifted like a heavy veil or curtain and you peak into a part of the mid that would entertain the idea that whatever ludicrous idea you have just conjured is maybe for the moment a real one. He fancies the moment, obviously not enough to imagine living the rest of hiss life globetrotting with his shadowy friends who gets him because they have been together as far back as he has been able to understand the  idea of object permanence (awesome as it may be), enough to allow his brain to believe the sentient shadow to be concrete and real for a second. Hypnotized by his own shadow, he is startled by a book that fell from a shelf, well actually he wasnt, he wishes he was coz then maybe this questionable exerise in pointlessness that is his blog-article- inexorable death move thing might finally have a touch of the supernatural and fill the void that is its purpose. Instead he continues to shuffle around vague plot points and reasoning as he eventually says sod the whole thing and slowly places his finger on the power button, he tried to write but feels it lacks purpose, it seems interesting but only to the eyes of the writer and he does not feel like being shunned by fellow authors he only too revcently had drinks with, who will probably hate the way his article is playfully surreaal and maybe even too meta to ever be taken too seriously. For the moment his thoughts are now in that cafe, this time though he is nowhere to be seen but his there they are, all laughing at this jioke of a post that doensnt know if its a lament of some sort or a simple self analysis of an author and his work. they pass the ipad around making cliched witissism like a group of friend on some new york based tv show that comes out mid afternoon on cable tv. "I think too much" he says as the final light on his laptop blinks off.