The other night before going to bed I had what I daresay was one of the most intense literary dreams I've ever had, where the idea for a novel that might actually be interesting to people outside of my own imagination came to me. Sadly, said idea was lost upon awakening the following morning, as most good dreams are wont to be.
If I'm not entirely mistaken, there was definitely something involving poker. Of course. And a girl. Of course. Let's see... what might have inspired me in the last few visits to the local card-room. A dealer perhaps? No, I don't believe so. They're nice enough, but none have really made too much of an impression on me, nor I on them. In fact, I'm probably quite invisible at a poker table. I'm not one for idle conversation, nor am I all that demonstrative with my actions or words. It's a card game after all, one which I may forever remain embarrassingly atrocious at.
Something reminiscent of classic literature? Man vies for poker trophy that would validate his existence, to the exclusion of the girl who loves him. Girl sacrifices self to man's arch-rival, using her body to win his salvation, by making a deal with the rival to throw the match. Man wins trophy, loses girl. Gives up trophy in search of girl? Too little too late, appropriately tragic demises all around. Fin.
What a load of crap.
The problem is, this writing has never reached beyond the level of distraction. What it lacks is a soul. For one who's own life as yet remains unfulfilling (or perhaps not "as yet," but more along the lines of "currently remains"), it is rather to be expected that the literary products of such a life shall want for some animation, some of the breath of life which made all the difference for Adam. I write to ake my mind off things, but where that mind settles is both arbitrary and meaningless. I may as well write about the bloody weather.
Fuck the bullshit British butler-speak. Not only can I not pull that shit off, it's fucking embarrassing to throw it out there after just having read The Remains of the Day. Jesus Christ, have an original thought you fucker.
It's true though. All I've ever wanted out of life is to be distracted. And the irony of that overstatement is something only two people are now privy to. One of whom I'm no longer sure shares the sentiment, as I once did. I don't really know if I still feel that way. Maybe I will always feel that way. But don't I have a say in how I feel? Sure, you oversensitive little pussy. Shut the fuck up. Fuck.
And that's what a book I might write will end up sounding like. A ball of tears and shit on the floor, curled up in the fetal position and pissing his pants. God bless the souls who find that appealing.
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