The Point of Confusion

Yet again, I’ve been up since 3, but unable to write anything of consequence. Everything I’ve written thus far has collapsed into scraps of damaged letters and malformed syllables. Fragments of incomplete ideas lay scattered across the monitor in front of me; thoughts shredded into a thousand pieces—unable to coalesce into coherent, meaningful expressions. My fingers rest on the keyboard; paralyzed. Incapable of reacting to instructions from my brain, they await commands that never reach them. Those mandates go off in different directions, instead, adhering to guidance better suited to circumstances utterly unlike those in which I find myself. I strain to listen to the colors of the trees, rustling in the wind. I feel the sounds of fruit ripening beneath the soil under my feet. I smell the flavor of wind rushing through the bare branches of shrubs torn from the sky. Destiny spills emphatically from ruptured pipes, demanding answers to questions posed in languages no one can understand. Confusion stands at the ready, with explanations nobody wants….or needs. All the solutions to none of the problems are laid bare on mounds of queries, hungry for answers to questions that could be doppelgängers to insistent answers. All of this is the price of misunderstanding and truth. And so it goes. Early to bed, early to rise, makes a man crazy and pondering his demise. A reinterpretation of these thoughts could lead to absolute understanding or endless confusion. So it’s pointless to try figure it out. No point in it at all.