NormBeggar's Belief (2005)
I’m not giving up hope. My brain is alive. I wanted it that way. I had no choice. Let me pontificate. I have taken to it. I like to. Let me reiterate: I pontificate. I get on my high horse. Screaming. Hoarse. Only to find it’s only wooden. Only! Think of the trees. They gave their lives for their pontif. They gave their lives for my position in life. That great and noble vacation: Scribbler. What miserable inklings I leave. But I digress. Think of the trees. Growing and shooting. Shooting their shoots. Growing their twig. Snapping and bearing. What joy for the trees to be felled. A tree. A log. Snap snap.
Time for my next project. A sad state of affairs. More joy to be had. I’m in no position to comment on others. All I can safely say is on myself. My life. My death I shall write of one day. When the land is green again. I don’t build. I’ve been building a lead balloon. I think it’s my best yet. It’s lead. It’s a balloon. It will fly. Fly balloon fly. The shape of the thing is grand. What joy. To be a builder. I build balloons. They fly. I have seen them. Not my own. Others.
I used to write for the fun of it. Now I merely labour. What joyous labour. The sheer joy of slaving over misery. The freedom is gone. I chained myself under the stairs. The stairs lead to my room. I stare at the wall. I’m inspired. I write to punish myself for writing. Community service. I choose death before deportation. I’m straining. I strain. Brocolli and rice. The rice is perfect. The green is not so. The green is brown. It’s dull and soft. No nutritional value. It’s value plumetted. It can’t be exchanged. I ate it. It did nothing. It had no taste. The taste was in the rice. It rose. So it was that I ate.
Time for my next project. A sad state of affairs. More joy to be had. I’m in no position to comment on others. All I can safely say is on myself. My life. My death I shall write of one day. When the land is green again. I don’t build. I’ve been building a lead balloon. I think it’s my best yet. It’s lead. It’s a balloon. It will fly. Fly balloon fly. The shape of the thing is grand. What joy. To be a builder. I build balloons. They fly. I have seen them. Not my own. Others.
I used to write for the fun of it. Now I merely labour. What joyous labour. The sheer joy of slaving over misery. The freedom is gone. I chained myself under the stairs. The stairs lead to my room. I stare at the wall. I’m inspired. I write to punish myself for writing. Community service. I choose death before deportation. I’m straining. I strain. Brocolli and rice. The rice is perfect. The green is not so. The green is brown. It’s dull and soft. No nutritional value. It’s value plumetted. It can’t be exchanged. I ate it. It did nothing. It had no taste. The taste was in the rice. It rose. So it was that I ate.
