by Nic Olson
It is alarming when your brain is empty. The alarm seems louder when there is nothing to absorb its sound. I now know how the majority of the public feels. I now know how an inanimate object feels. I curl up in a ball sitting on the only soft chair for miles, head between my knees because I have nothing to do and my head can’t come up with anything to think about. It is blank. Like an empty sheet of paper, but less a dimension.
If you take a blank piece of paper and a black marker, and write every word in the dictionary on that paper, the page will become black. Blank again, but black. Maybe there is too much rotating, swirling, bubbling, marinating, stewing in my mind that it has turned a white page black. Maybe I need a shelving system for my brain, and that system is an education, or a job, or a less apathetic outlook. These mixing words could be stored neatly like an archive of all the thoughts ever thought if only they had an archivist. I need to find said archivist. I’ll post an ad on CraigsList in the Erotic section:
‘Twenty-two year old seeks Aged and Wrinkly to deal with a room full of disorganization. Must have experience in the Dewey Decimal system. Must have size 34D.’
So I root through a waist-high pile of black scribbled words on a while slab to bring you the latest version of this. And I hope, at least not for five years or so, that I don’t come off as completely crazy, but just confused, and in need of an archivist.
Accepting resumes now.