Taciturn

I sit at my shitty desk. I stare at my CRT. It blinks, whizzes and twirls when I want it to. Most of the time it doesn't, but that's OK because I don't want it to.

I look at a dark screen with a small taskbar. The taskbar says look, you have options!. The schoolmaster in my head yells at me, pointing to the text editor.

The text editor contains my work. Perhaps an empty slate — it is where I should be working.

There are more interesting things available. There are websites, people, music, videos, music videos, emails, documents, crap. Lots of crap. I'd prefer to be working on something interesting; instead I quibble.

The paper stares blankly, and I pretend I'm working. Eight hours of hard work later I discovered I haven't actually achieved anything. I've scanned a silent chat room for life hundreds of times. As soon as one speaks, I reply. The conversation dies, and I go back to wondering.

I feel the incessant thump of expectations bashing my head from the inside out. It tries to keep me on task, but I refuse. There are so many more interesting things. Maybe a website has changed in the last 3 minutes. I find a wikipedia document on some moderately interesting topic. I read it and follow some links. I read, I learn.

The examiners think I'm lazy. I don't learn. Learning is studying and doing assignments. Learning is not getting out and fiddling. I don't fiddle when I'm meant to be working. I don't learn.

The creativity leaves and for a moment I think I'm by myself again. It revisits; reality; I am. I don't mind it. It is comforting.

The cicadas sing. Their song fills me like a sickening simile. I can't stand it. Maybe they'll go away one day. Maybe they hear the music, too. They go quiet when it plays.

The music holds a secret. Others hear noise and hate. I hear beauty. Not commercial beauty — that's not beauty at all. The word has been soiled.

I try to share the music, but they can't hear it. It reminds me of a movie. A movie which struggled to be mainstream, and failed for the same reason.

The music has stopped. I stopped it. I can think now, and the cicadas return. This time they're listening to me. They understand, and are respectful. I like the cicadas, they fill the void.

I yearn for the music, but now is not the time. It's spawned my soul, and I want it to stay awake. Not the commercial soul. Get the commerce away.

Bernard does it best.

The skin, like a strange polymer. It has stories, but is unable to speak. It lacks respect, but wishes for it.

Then it leaves. In its place lies something artificial. I try to finish, but it's gone. I go back; it returns. All is the same.