Fresh Air From The Age

“I see a harbor filled with masts and sails, wearied by the sea wind that wearies me.”

To the toilet.

Naturally, the time spent on a toilet is marvelously reflective, usually inspiring a pensive mood or, in this case, a blog. I think of Literature sometimes, Wilde and Baudelaire’s Literature, and I wonder if I am capable of it. To “publish” has become a one-sided joke with no punch line, or an action as trivial as telling a friend about a realistic dream. After all, as soon as this text is complete, this text far from Literature, I will push a button and it will be “published”. People do it all the time… on paper, that is, so the illusion is made concrete… from weight loss books to romance… Nicholas Sparks and Dan Brown… Stephen King once called himself the “McDonald’s of Literature”. God bless him, he can keep it real. This is the problem, lack of that which is real, that which isn’t transient or trivial… the Internet does not help. It sometimes seems like the Internet does everything in its cosmic power to hinder actual communication. Enter Facebook, enter Twitter, enter the illusion of human interaction– what happened to people’s faces? Their eyes? Their body language? Were going nowhere, this blog far from excluded, and so we should abstain altogether. Abstain from what? What can really matter? I can’t wait to have a child, that way I’ll find solace and distraction in parenting… to learn to grow complacent and consider it comfort. I’ll now click “publish” and be back at square one, delightful in its plateaus.


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