A/N: Majority of this was written without much thinking. Or at least that's my perception of it.

I don’t know what to write about—what to say. Truly (or at least as far as I perceive truly to be), I don’t. And that is why I have decided to go against what I would naturally be inclined to do—to step away from Microsoft Word—and just say what I think (if I think, that is the question) at the moment. Good thing my fingers can keep up.

I don’t know what to write about—what to say. Truly (or at least as far as I perceive truly to be, because perhaps in every truth an element of fallacy stills exists), I don’t. And that is why I am writing this incoherent piece of boondoggle, or shit, or crap or whatever you want to call it, just so that I may prove my point.

I don’t know what to write about—what to say. Truly (or at least as truthful as truly could be in a world full of falsities), I don’t. Or at least I think I don’t. I knew I was going to say something—but the very fact that my fingers can cope up with the pace of this, makes it unable to cope with all the ones that just fly through. And I don’t think I’m making much sense here.

I don’t know what to write about—what to say. Truly (or at least as truthful as truly could be...I’m sure you already get the point), I’m still trying to recall what sort of moving thing I was going to include here. I type too fast; I’ve no time to think. And now I’m wondering whether I should permit myself to use the backspace tool. I’ve errored twice. And errored, according to the MS Document (or Word or what-have-you), does not even exist.

I don’t know what to write about—what to say. Truly, I don’t mean this. Which provides such an irony—such paradox—to think that all this time I’ve been saying that I don’t know what to write, and yet in such a short amount of time I’ve written…five paragraphs. Yes. So maybe I do know what to write, or I don’t, or who the hell cares. The point is: the life is sucked out of me.

I no longer feel the magic of pen on paper engulfing me with jubilance and exhilaration—or finger to keyboard, if you want me to be technically correct. The meaning of my words is gone. It is not art. I feel empty. And though I wrote more boondoggle—or shit or crap or whatever you want to call it—before, at least I felt happy. I didn’t worry about what people thought. I wrote shit, and wrote shit.

Hell, at least I wrote.

In the end, I truly don’t know. And there are no fallacies anymore. Or at least that’s my perception of it.