And so it goes..

A man, youngish yet withered by his jaded view of the world, sits at his desk and begins to type on his laptop - the first time he has attempted anything outside the creation of corporate memorandums, emails, proposals and literature within the similar vein, for 3 months. The cursor, blinking ever so steadily, akin to perhaps an elderly lady with a walker straddling a pedestrian crossing, entices his fingertips to translate ideas into words on a page. He stares at the cursor. It says nothing. He stares blankly. Nothing but self-absorbed, self-referential drivel emanates onto the screen. Why isnt there anything to write about? There appears to be a plethora of objects to inspire mediocre comment on. Phone bills piled up to the left of his laptop, an empty cup of coffee from the night before still bears the stains of cheap nestcafe, and amongst this mad modern mess, a pen sits idly by the ipod. Pen: mightier than the sword, might err in the presence of the word processor. He types a sentence, deletes it, and lets the pen idea slide - no point philosophising about the evolution of how ideas have been recorded by humans for other humans. He decides to summarise this idea in one sentence, not to trivialise it, but merely to point out the frivolity in thinking it can be expressed in an internet forum. He writes 'spoken word, cave drawings (ochre), sand drawings, papyrus, inks, quail, pencil, pen, printing, typewriter, wordprocessor'. So it goes.

He has called in sick at work today, in order to pursue other goals which are difficult to partake on working days. Despite taking the first step in making some time, laziness rears its head and fixates its eyes on the mind numbing entertainment that is Midday TV (free-to-air). Girls are screaming because some celebrity or the other with an axe to grind and a product/film/album to plug have shown up on a couch next to the ever omnipotent Oprah. Dr Phil spends an hour discussing various marital problems, before rubbing it in everyones face at the end of the show when he walks off ever so happily with his wife. Melodramatic antics ensue on various soap operas when someones husbands dog marries his sister, dies and comes back to life, or so you would think until you realise that the husband is actually the father, best friend and second uncles cousin of the girl who is the town bicycle. Very confusing. Next up, a man with a history of petty crime and a ragged checkered shirt requests the payment of $200 from his ex-lover: an overweight, underdressed and illiterate character who allegedly broke her ex-boyfriends window when they lived together 2 years ago. Judge Judy's verdict is final - someone wins, but ultimately the viewer loses. So it goes.

He sits back in front of his laptop, upon the realisation that none of the things he'd set out to do today had been achieved. His attempt at contributing to an otherwise (relatively) interesting forum has simply become a trite recollection of a day spent in the usual mediocrity and obscurity many of us in the middle(ish) classes have become accustomed to. He realises however, that things could be worse, the pain of midday TV or living in a sub-saharan slum. Middle class guilt sets in, and he decides to give some money to charity. He walks away realising that he hasn't yet given up his name to those reading his blog post, but that part of him continues to walk away from the screen. Since we don't know his name, let's call him 'I'. And so it goes.