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A Shade of Soliloquy

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It has been a very long time since I have last written. This could be due to the pencil situation. Its wonderful to live in a big house, but if it has no pencils, how will I ever get out? And no, Im not a literary agoraphobic, though I want people to think I am with that last sentence, though some people might not have gotten the obvious poetic metaphor. Well, anyway I am actually a literary agoraphobic and you best believe it. My point is, anyway, that pencils are very important and I would much rather live in a home with them then without them. We have absolutely no pencils in this home. It really is unbelievable. Well this is going terribly wrong. Well, its because I have a pencil but unfortunately, no eraser. Its worse than no pencil, because you can actually read your own gibberish back to yourself, rather than editing the crap out. Well, I did save it a little by that last sentence (the one about my pencil having no eraser, and me reading the gibberish back to myself rather than editing the crap out). I really do wish I had an eraser. Well, all the wit went out when I explained that I thought what I wrote was witty so now its just simply no good. Yet I keep on writing, and my eraser doesn’t magically show up.

You know what I got for my birthday? The only gift..really, I swear. My grandmother gave me a box of pencils. Now you know how I can write this. That was the only present. Pencils. It was actually sort of a joke since I’m complaining here about pencils, don’t think I don’t complain off paper. Well, the eraser fell off of this pencil and the pencil sharpener is about a paragraph away until I can finally sharpen my other pencils. 7 more of them. With a new triangular shape. So, I am writing now. Or now I am writing. Or…my pencil is conceiving the new empty birth of thoughts hanging from the lull from my stolid imagination. At least I feel that way. Same with this boring minimalist approach to writing. I am much more interesting! Really, think F. Scott Fitzgerald in Jean Genet’s bra. That was a metaphor, if you sincerely had thought that up then that was just your lack of literary wit. Its your fault, and you deserve it. I don’t like this approach to writing, too many periods and I feel a migraine coming on, but I would feel that way without the paper and pencil anyway so I guess this approach works. See, if my eraser was working then I would edit that “I don’t like this approach to writing” part out and write something more suitable now that my thoughts have been cognized such as “this writing is not a grave restraint of my wild literary ingenuity, but it is the art of my emotion”. And my emotion is relatively stolid. So, I’m going to put my pencil down after this sentence and sharpen the other ones, I wonder how the triangular shape would make a difference to the feel of the sharpening process, but I wont end with that because I wouldn’t want any reader (whoever has graced this) to assume that that last sentence would mean anything rhetorical or would have any direct retrospective to the situation from now knowing my acute wit and deeply symbolic form of writing, now if you will excuse me I am going off to sharpen my pencil because as you can see, the lead on the paper is thicker and lighter, which shows I am running out of lead and I am running out of breath.



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