I don’t really have anything to say. And yet I write. Just like that.
I am not one for writing about the little things in life, or even noticing them for that matter. I can’t tell you how I felt when that first rains came down; the images and sounds were too beautiful to notice those ephemeral and useless feelings. I can’t tell you about epiphanies or revelations I had while listening to music, for those notes and words mean more to me than mere personal interpretations.
Right now I have nothing to do, right now I feel nothing; I am simply typing. Just like that.
Why must everything have a reason? Why is simply feeling like doing something, reason enough?
Why must everything, good and bad, have a reaction? What is a reaction after all, but an attempt to change the very thing that brought it about?
Why must we have goals? What are goals but those stifling things that take us away from the act of simply doing to the mind set of ‘getting something’ out of what we do?
Why can we not simply do things for the sake of doing them? Why don’t we do things without rhyme or reason? Why do we use the word ‘why’ so much?
Now I do have more to say, yet I stop. Just like that.