and now the waiting game...

i've finally reached the point of starting to write my thesis, and so far the only thing i've learned is that i have nothing to say. actually, that's not true. i have too much to say.

(what's the problem?)

the problem is that i suffer at present from some sort of stuttering stunted starting disorder. in an attempt to ameliorate this condition i have rearranged notes, redrafted outlines, eaten Cheetos, listened to Beethoven, researched Dostoevsky, and regretted eating Cheetos.

thus far nothing has worked.

for the time being i've returned to one of my perennial favorites – adding another piddling dribble of drivel to the ten billion other piddling dribbles of drivel that constitute this monument of post-modernity known, to those pretentious enough to say it, as the 'interweb.'

(how clever, a portmanteau that really isn't.)

anyway, besides amusing myself with my own snideness, i'm being driven slowly crazy by a beeping alarm that emanates from the elevator control closet where i live, which has compelled me to abandon the Beethoven in favor of Mozart. even now his requiem begins, and i wonder if it foreshadows these endless waking moments. i wonder if the relationship between the dearth of meaning and the death of meaning is asymptotic or linear, or if memories of childhood have any ultimate effect on the nature of being.

[lapse]

i finished another book yesterday, unrelated to my research, and a man's shadow made an interesting point: if life can be known only in relation to death, then 'eternal life' cannot accurately be described as living at all. the shadow called this endless state of being a mere "existence," but the man stood his ground, deciding to stay in the mindless land and wait for memories to return him to the world of the living.

i do not know with whom i identified, the man or his shadow, but in the closing pages of the novel i found myself brought to the brink of tears.

the moral of the story?

"It ain't easy bein' cheesy."