Karl (louderback) wrote,

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Morpheus' orphan


Morpheus spurns my abode — leaves me lacking in somnambulistic intent and I know not why.

Drear night surrounds me and afflicted with a glaring eye before me crossed and crossed by lines of text I pound away upon this instrument of my destruction that steals my words through my fingertips and leads me upon a literary path to dissolute depression.

I sit and chat, awaiting other chatter and wonder at the dearth of ideas in my head. In exchanges of rapid-fire humor with the Mighty Ed, I find my speech studded with conventions, clichés, and platitudes as carefully orchestrated as "inside speak" — that incomprehensible jumble of baby talk and inside jokes — that families use among themselves. Familiarity is, I suppose, a good thing but it breeds, not contempt, but a descent to the least common denominator. All my friends are of that invaluable sort with whom no conversation need take place. We may bask in each other without the brightness of witty repartee or fanciful words to illuminate the recesses of minds in which we may wander confidently in the dark with no need to grope through sheer familiarity.

How ironic and faintly sad that a plenitude of the best of friends should leave me destitute of the mental aggression that has been my hallmark. To be sure there is no lack in them, no shortfall of anything that I might name but rather I have begun to fade.

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