by Nic Olson
Writers try this all too often, to scrape together a handful of meaningful, or at least readable sentences everyday for an extended period of time to try to encourage a discovery, or give some sort of meaning to a banal existence by highlighting sentiments to different life situations. But I’m doing it, writing something once every remaining day this month, regardless of the recycled idea, and the likely recycled themes, because if anyone has time to do it, it is me. And if anyone has a shitty platform to do it on, it is also me. I mean, if I write something everyday for thirty, probability alone says that there has got to be at least one sentence out of them all that has some trace of intelligence.
Through the first third of the year my mind has covered some territory, my independence has been declared but shown as weak, and I got really nowhere. I am having the same exact feelings of unease as I did in January, where the only place of comfort is against some bunched up tattered blankets on the floor in the corner of my new room in front of my computer with Johnny Cash singing shakily his past four albums.
My bedroom moved three Metro stations north, one floor up, ten steps back, twenty square feet less, a searing red faded into a patched peach, and the original unfamiliarity rings strong as ever before.
But I can spit out my bedroom window. Now all I need is a smokeless tobacco addiction.