I'm too into it even. I haven't even properly started yet and I'm already over the average page count.
In between the rows of text I wonder why it's always so that we have to commit to one thing at a time. And committing to only one, it wraps around me so tight that I see it when I close my eyes, I dream about it when I'm so tired I pass out and it's the first thing that pops into my mind as I open my eyes.
The enthusiasm sometimes scares the hell out of me, but then I get up, open the window and get reminded that it's just another crappy day.
I make a cup of coffee, pick it up, then sneeze and spill it all over the place. Another crappy day, yah...
Another day of peeking out towards the Sun through the curtains, of reading people's statuses about how they're finally able to sit out in the Sun and sip their coffees and of people passing by, wrapped in their own tiny biospheres and not minding my own.
The more I read, the more I want to write. But it doesn't work that way. There have to be some limits. There has to be an asshole who'll say: Let's just fuck with them and make them suffer a bit more!
So I'm writing and writing and writing something that I know will be cut out in such little pieces it will be unrecognizable to my eyes. My own eyes, who come with the body that the hands that wrote it are connected to.
A collage of someone's words typed by someone else's hands to be read by people who do stuff for other people...
Sisyphus seems like a first-grade newbie now, doesn't he? Or he doesn't. I'm not sure.
I'm way too into my own crap here.