NormEntry (17-03-2011)
So, it looks, from all reports, as though I have come to the conclusion that I should introduce myself to you, my royal leader. It seems obvious at this point to draw your mind to the fact that, even to the least avid reader, reading, and for that matter writing, is a habit of even the least successful persons. Counting myself, as I do, as one of the least successful people lacking personality I have ever had the misfortune to have anything to do with, I think it not inappropriate at this particular juncture to let my mind and thoughts, framed as they are within my head, wander off in any and all directions without recourse to simile, metaphor, characterisation or any other artificial means of capturing myself as I stand here today, sitting down, wondering what to do next. It is with this in mind that I introduce myself to you with only one thought in mind. What am I trying to say?
Anyway, enough of the long, and windy, sentences that have nothing to do with the next or the last. Let us think, momentarily at least, about the frightening possibilty that there is a maniac out there with your name on their knife. Trusting, of course, that my name is not Wiltshire I think I can be safe in the knowledge that for some reason I think it appropriate at this time to resort to scare-tactics. In order that I, myself, might not appear to be like some kind of an ego-maniac, I can empty out the pockets of my mind and you will surely see that I have nothing even remotely sharp in here. While it's true that I am extremely dull in person, I am, in fact, even more boring than anyone can possibly imagine. While even today I am yet to have anything to say for, or to, myself - and even if I did you can be sure that it would probably be along the lines of a blank expression.
Now that that has been sorted out, I think it a timely time to examine exactly why I feel it neccessary to use such a pompous, and frankly, annoying tone. Well, it's quite complicated really. When you have no particular topic to write about, other than yourself, it seems as though employing a sharp and interesting range of tones is rather all in vain. Now, as I have no other real interest than somehow jumping out of this phase of literary inactivity, and into some form of renumerated acclaim, I think it is far from inappropriate to talk endlessly about the lack of meaningful meaning I have to convey. As I also believe that the true meaning of any literary activity always escapes the reader, and in fact the writer, I don't see any point in saying any one meaningful thing at all, at this point. Other than, I really can't see how writing offers me any real hope! Now that I have afforded you the luxury of looking into the reflective surfaces of my mind, I hope you look favourably on seeing something of yourself in here.
Anyway, enough of the long, and windy, sentences that have nothing to do with the next or the last. Let us think, momentarily at least, about the frightening possibilty that there is a maniac out there with your name on their knife. Trusting, of course, that my name is not Wiltshire I think I can be safe in the knowledge that for some reason I think it appropriate at this time to resort to scare-tactics. In order that I, myself, might not appear to be like some kind of an ego-maniac, I can empty out the pockets of my mind and you will surely see that I have nothing even remotely sharp in here. While it's true that I am extremely dull in person, I am, in fact, even more boring than anyone can possibly imagine. While even today I am yet to have anything to say for, or to, myself - and even if I did you can be sure that it would probably be along the lines of a blank expression.
Now that that has been sorted out, I think it a timely time to examine exactly why I feel it neccessary to use such a pompous, and frankly, annoying tone. Well, it's quite complicated really. When you have no particular topic to write about, other than yourself, it seems as though employing a sharp and interesting range of tones is rather all in vain. Now, as I have no other real interest than somehow jumping out of this phase of literary inactivity, and into some form of renumerated acclaim, I think it is far from inappropriate to talk endlessly about the lack of meaningful meaning I have to convey. As I also believe that the true meaning of any literary activity always escapes the reader, and in fact the writer, I don't see any point in saying any one meaningful thing at all, at this point. Other than, I really can't see how writing offers me any real hope! Now that I have afforded you the luxury of looking into the reflective surfaces of my mind, I hope you look favourably on seeing something of yourself in here.
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