I didn't sleep much last night, but it was for a good reason. I had the distinct pleasure of touring the Parliamentary Press Gallery today and it was SOOOOOO cool (and I'm not even much of a media junkie!).
But, as a result, I'm sitting at my media monitoring station feeling really sluggish and not so good with the whole "creativity" thing. BUT, as I was poring through my Inbox, I noticed a little piece of writing done a few weeks ago that kind of got the ball rolling on this whole "Nick needs to write more" mantra I've been chanting for the past few weeks.
So, in an ironic testament to laziness, I give you a short piece I wrote that was inspired by laziness (sort of), and presenting it because I feel lazy... Somehow that's a funny statement, I swear!
May 5 2010
It's a grim series of days, linked together in a fog. Every time I open my eyes from sleep, I have to take a few minutes to figure out whether or not I'm awake. And then contemplate if the things going on in my dreams are the reality, because they make so much sense, or are the waking sagas of bullshit that are so incredulous really my life?
Am I really working this job? Are you sure I'm not actually a zombie hunter who can fly? That makes a whole lot more sense than clerk, communications monkey, gas pumper, whatever... I really was much happier with the shotgun and the wings...
Are these the relationships I have? Forced to keep company with fools, wastes and charlatans? And what of the real people, the ones who truly strike a chord with me? When do the long knives come out with them?
Et tu, buddy, pal, soul mate?
Is this paradoxal mix of fatigue, laziness and privilege keeping me from achieving my dreams? Do I have any? Is laying here, waiting for the next wail of the alarm and smack of the snooze button, the only real contemplation I'm left with? Why do we only ask questions when we're half-awake and pissed off?