Serious Nonsense Pargraph

          Warning: not necessarily grammar checked.  I hope it comes off as interesting, humerous, and just plain weird.  Because that's what I am.  Carry on.

         From an interest that foolishly fumbles into a idea which sparks a craving.  For more.  For progress.  The words come not as plump and righteous fruits, but the outlawed black seeds that are embodied and spat onto the page.  Black words on a pristine white slate.  Pure as it appears, cherubic as it flirts, the beginning is nothing less than paradoxical.  "Come on, let's see how brave you are!" it taunts my automated fingers.  "Leave them alone," I want to say.  It isn't their fault.  They are the grunts of my army of imagination, the pawns of my fanatical and tyrannical mind.  The fingers don't make the shots, oh mighty blank page.  They just dance for me.  But then, the blank page seems to agree with every thought that crosses my mind.  I am skeptic of the immediate gratification and proceed warily, thus holding back the deluge of novel thoughts that wish to be born.  Perfection is my enemy.  Conformity is my enemy.  Time is my enemy.  Everything it seems is my enemy, and I am being attacked from all sides in a war that I am unaware is being fought.  Indeed, I am a blind man caught in a firefight, but one does not need bearings to speak.  My outlet is the barren parcel before me.  Prepared to yell, geared to charge, I'm blocked by another mysterious immovable object.  Where, oh where, do I start?  A question?  A resounding assumption?  A passive gesture that questions humanity's morals in such an intriguing way that I am sure to get a high rating from the local librarian solely based on the first sentence?  Yes it is a quandary, isn't it?  Apparently, the hardest part of any journey is the first step.  Well there is an idea, how about a quote of wisdom?  But, from whom, and better yet, from when?  What is my intended audience?  Wait.  Rewind.  Stop.  Hold it, and…  Record.  I do not write for an audience.  This is not for a simplistic entertaining cause.  This is a dressed up explanation of the drudgery of my lazy art.  Writing is quite lazy, isn't it?  Tangent.  I begin with a disembodied observation of a personified action that is entirely out of context.  There, ha!  Have at thee, o-wicked beginning.  You have been trumped.  I, the artist, the creator, now have a foundation.  The first seed has been spat, and it is time to build.  I describe.  Outline ideas to come.  Vaguely so at first.  Short snippets of brilliance.  Like this.  Beginning in a serious manner to the general reader, but with subtle playfulness to the critic.  As if I am serious about my projects but laugh at myself all the same.  I must be a lunatic to realize that my workshop arises when all the world is asleep, including distractions and common societal awareness.  But I remain awake and alive, and through the darkness my nonlinear ideas pour out with fantastic light.  Through the silence of night, my assembled thoughts come out with resonating sound.  From my foundation, I take a rib and create more that proliferate freely, flourish into grandiose statements that make dark assumptions or free a curious mind.  Every fellow is unique, but fits just perfectly as to make a uniform squadron of thought, speculation, creative assessment, critical condemnation.  Speed bump.  Of what?  Mind you, I've forgotten a subject.  I've spoken, but with no bearings because I am a blind man in a firefight.  Given an extra variable, that I am armed with a train of thought and can fire back at my aggressors, the situation becomes critical.  Do I write of fabled adventures from my deepest of dreams?  Or a notion that bothered me while at the bus stop not too long ago?  Think about it.  It's easy to run, but hard to pace yourself enough to finish a race with a hidden ending.  Every moment could be your last, every next moment you could die of exhaustion.  It's a gamble, but why start a battle if you're not willing to fight for it?  Subject: unanimous.  Plot: continue.  Dance fingers, dance.  What fuels you?  Desire?  Do you even have emotion?  Such wan creatures, fingers.  Sleep is irrational, if the ideas are not transferred through them now, I could be up for hours defending my own act of indecision with poor excuses.  Awful testimony.  So they come out now, from the factory, through the tendrils, to the blackening sheet that has by now been spat on quite a bit.  Some seeds are more handsome than others, there's no arguing that.  But they have all taken root nonetheless, and are therefore qualified to blossom.  Like a plush white dogwood during the shaking off of winter at spring's dawn.  Funny thing is, dogwood trees have many a blossom.  From the far spreading roots that inherit bountiful nutrients, up the solid trunk that has withstood the test of time to record a unique story, to the smaller branches that ultimately support multiple blossoms.  And to get to those precious blossoms, the branch must split every now and then to be absolutely certain that it is used to its entirety as Mother Nature intended.  Every good story, like every good tree, comes to an end.  There are countless branches and stems to be taken to reach the singular blossom that cannot be prophesized.  The blossom does not shape the tree.  The blossom is the eventuality of the tree, the stopping point.  And whether that stopping point be the beautifully crafted ending or a maddening bout of writer's block,

-Alwins