My hour of fiction writing today has been reduced to a couple of minutes. I had to organise my thoughts first and that took 50 minutes. After that, now, I feel I am better situated to confront my writing hour, I hope.

So, I’m hungry.

I am very hungry.

Hunger, hungry, the hangry hungery hungering hunger of my humble interior body.

My stomach screams.

It does. It doesn’t do it in a rhythm.

Why should it?

It is mostly a separate system from that of my brain. That thing that is coming up with these words. Supposedly, apparently, maybely.

Anywayly, brains are weird.

Mine is a brain, or isn’t it?

Am I a brain? Or am I an octopus that thinks that it is only a brain?

What is a brain anyway?

It is a lie. It is just the interconnection of things that fight for space.

If it were to be cut into sections that don’t speak to one another, my brainly, brainful, braintest brain, would not be a thing, but it would come apart as the multitude of partishes, that it partingly, parted is.

Hum, rhymes or those words that appear as the counsiouness of my brain fades and I, the brain, my brain, a brain, a collection of parts, an illusion, an abstract concept in the sea of ideas and the physical thing that nobody understands, yet, not completely, comes up with stuff.

It creates, me creates, they creates, thou creates, we create words. My multitude, your multitude, your rythmical, atypical, topical, and subtropical, chemical and philosophycal, builds upon and thereupon the things that I couldn’t muster before.

Art? Poetry? What are they?

Do I understand that words carry not only meaning but emotions and that stories are just one expression of what it means to be a tentacled creature in the middle of the ocean of knowledge and predators?

Work, job, a life, the pressures. They, they do exist though.

I can’t escape them.

They are final.

They are fixed.

They are not what this is about but they are the end of everything.

The creativity, once a primal force, fades away and a structured sentence, a simple, polished sentence, comes in the end to stop it all, to signal the repetition of nothingness, and to slowly dry up my underwater house, leaving only but tedious chores to be done again and again.

I should go to work.