No-thing.

So I sat there, with nothing to do, picking the lint out of my cotton-fingernails, wondering where the night went.

I picked up the paper. Piece, of paper, I mean, although it wasn’t a piece of paper, it was a sheet of paper. The English language is so fatigued, why do we insist on referring a whole as a piece?

It was then, I wanted to say, ‘my eyes heavied’, ‘my heart raced’, or something seemingly dramatic, however, I was, perhaps, at harmony; I did have a headache.

Should I mention the rain? It’s pouring at the moment, sounds a bit clichéd though; there’s a certain magic about pouring rain.

I want to write something profound, but originality has been strung from my fingertips. I wish I could get out of here, somewhere. Well, perhaps not, anywhere. I want to twirl rainbow protein-strands around my wrists, I want to hang near a pot of gold, I want to sing, but silently, so nobody else hears.

Why are we so afraid of rejection when we seem so gratified to give it? It’s like, if someone suggests something that is not agreed upon, there’s this certain rush we feel from telling them they’re wrong- yet, when it’s our turn, we crumble. Even to those who claim not to care about their ideas, or their behaviour being rejected, who do not crumble- I ask, what is it then that fuels them to perform with such conviction? To stand up and say, ‘you’re wrong and I don’t care’.
They care; they care more than those who crumble. They value opinions, that’s why. They care for them, they live off them. Without others opinions their rebellion would serve no purposes. It’d be like having a voice with no one to hear you.

It’s a kind of snobbery.
You like this, I don’t, mine is superior, you are wrong, you should change. I am above you. People who like that are indicative of people like those. Let me point the finger, let me make comparisons.

It’s a grave assumption, though, but maybe it’s only I who finds a good old contradiction beautiful.