Sunday nights at 11 PM used to mean going downstairs to watch the episode of The Simpsons that I had missed earlier at 7 PM. Thankfully, since Star World began placing reruns of some obscure Neil Patrick Harris sitcom during this particular time, I have finally found some semblance of release from this routine. Now, Sunday nights at 11 PM has become the time that I reap the fields of my weary consciousness and begin planting ideas and thoughts on the screen of my monitor. Fortunately, I can still sate my Simpsons fix by watching daily reruns either at 6 AM or at 6 PM. There is, indeed, a God.
With the rain beating down softly on the windowpane, and the ground wet with teardrops of desperate angels, I sit, fingertips clicking my keyboard, groping for something to type. My eager mind is constantly excited by the possibility of having something to say.
See, typing on my computer has always provided some obscure solace for my soul. The blinking cursor was always a sign of unexpressed sincerity, longing to let loose some burst of unexpected genius, digitally displayed and explicitly understood by anyone who bothered to waste electricity and kilobytes of their ISP. In order to experience this comfort, I stare at the monitor, my vision slowly being corroded by my prolonged exposure to its harmful glare. My mind becomes excited by the realization that I am slowly formulating a cohesive thought process, which gradually becomes a reality as I persist.
There are times when I tire of expressing myself this way, knowing that my audience remains, as always, limited and confined to a select, insomniac few. I also know, for a fact, that the only people who will ever care to read what I have to write are those who share my fondness for disposable thoughts and random bursts of quasi-inspiration. All of which, incidentally, can be summoned by clicking on all the links of a friend’s LiveJournal, or browsing random weblogs of dissatisfied teenagers the world over.
Sometimes, the muse of my persistence deserts me, leaving selfish thoughts of wanderlust and self-indulgence to remain. When that happens, I am tempted to remain glib, by commenting on some obscure piece of popular culture,. or I begin to sound self-consciously superior, reveling in some verbose display of my English vocabulary. Subsequently, I turn my nose up at some bloated Hollywood blockbuster, or begin lurking through message boards and forums. I put up an authoritative front, and summon that amalgam of quasi-Lester Bangs/Reality Bites sarcasm that I revel in.
Fortunately, I choose to become a man of choices, and instead of choosing to appear superior, I gradually choose to type. Through the efforts of my spirit, I constantly type so swiftly, that my inhibitions become lost in the flurry of my desire to capture my truth with the 1s and 0s of my CPU. Blissfully, I sit here, the cozy warmth of a soft Sunday night rain shower welcoming the cold of Monday morning, robbing my tired mind of precious slumber.
Now, I happily remain in the shackles of my digital prison. My spirit stays at peace here, knowing that the key to my freedom is found among the keys of my PC. And in the end, the digital bard in me seems oddly determined, choosing to remain trapped in the unending limbo of longing to express something meaningful, having something profound to type, and in turn, acquiring some higher purpose to fulfill. Because despite all my modern trappings and my technological savvy, I simply remain a humble and loyal servant to the resiliency of the human spirit. As a digital bard, it is my constant desire to seek and achieve my personal truth. And, mark my words, this is indeed a fervent cause that will keep my fingers flying over the keyboard of my destiny.
Written by martin_blank, edited by amplifier and first appeared on www.peyups.com on 22nd January 2005.