Pat adjective

The aptly named writer slogged through another hangover to wearily slouch over his keyboard. The frontal lobe ached unsympathetically, every neuron felt stretched and battered. The pores felt like a Saudi oil patch, sandy, greasy but dry as an uncomely maiden aunt.

Each aching thought took a toll in a spirit wrenching way, the desire for sleep is unquenchable, no sleep for the writer would come.

Still, in this dazed and semi-expired state, the writer felt every fibre of his being cry out to be something more than it was, a horrible, unfulfilled need and longing, not just to satisfy bodily urges, but a generalised anxiety from a feeling of hopeless mediocrity. The fear of a wasted intellect, a capable mind but one so bereft of creativity that even finding a new hobby becomes a herculean task. A mind that is almost encyclopedic in its knowledge but with too many pages torn out to make sense of anything at all.

The cost of social normalisation was too much for this one, the bodily and emotional urges won, forced a shift in every part of being, but the psychic torment remains. The screeching of a soul betrayed, desolate and inconsolable. Like sand caught in a brake rotor, every action becomes tortorous and uncertain, but ultimately unimportant, as the wheels continue to pound on unheeding.

Where is a boring writer to find solace of the soul? When laziness prevents thoroughness, when intelligence and boredom become so mixed that only a vague mental frame of mind remains. Wasted youth comes to mind, wasted possibilities. Add insult to injury, those responsible find no fault in their actions, society is content to have another cog, instead of having a pure machine that would have added far more value than simply pushing the ticking bomb of civilisation one second forward. Frustrated genius? A claim that is more ephemeral than beauty. There is no substance to it, since genius is lacking. Only a vague cleverness, but one that is more comfortable with rote and convention. A dire curse for one who utterly despises both. A person who holds creativity to the highest degree. Invention, innovation, genius, traits that can only be longed for.

Hard work could bring something like that to the dark heart of the author, but at the cost of all the things that the writer sacrificed his soul for: relationships, acceptance in society, understanding of the human world. The crux of this is that in this crucible of a planet there is little room for one who must be both human and sentient.

With increased humanity, so we sacrifice our sentience. Sentience is cold, cruel and calculating, we dampen it with emotion and caring, but even that holds calculations of its own. All science has a cold beauty, but it only acquires its loveliness from the human perspective. That perspective twists the beauty into a modified untruth, like digitally altering the photo of a beautiful woman. It is not even necessary.

The wandering thoughts stray now...