Irony at it’s best.

I am at the library.  I am trying to write.  My mind is completely void.  It’s like I put too much pressure on myself.  It wasn’t spur of the moment.  This day was meant to write, and now that I am trying to add to my personal essay(s) or even begin some new poetry, I just can’t grasp at anything.  I am feeling very unoriginal.  People have said it before me.  And they said it so well.  What have I got to offer up?  What is new about my view?  Is there anything new?  I am sure there is.  I know there is.  But I cannot articulate it right now.  The words are all running together.  It’s like a haze has settled over my mind.  Dense fog.  Cannot see.  And yet, sitting here and writing this is different.  It’s not meant to be anything but for your amusement.  For my amusement.  For my desire to express myself on various subjects.  It’s not something I will eventually submit to publishers, so it’s unimportant, and all I want to do is write here.  About nothing and everything.  I want to sit and quote a song, lecture on the better qualities of synth-indie-pop, and recommend books and movies and television shows.  I want to state that “Beautiful” by The Firebird Band is an absolutely gorgeous song.  I want to wax on about the non-existent difference between water flavors (oxymoron, right?) of Fiji and Evian, and question why they are so much more expensive.  I want to express my absolute ecstasy at the fact that it is a brilliant and beautiful day.  The sun shining, thawing out the winter ground.  Melting the piles of snow and warming all who choose to spend time with it today.

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