# 37

I can conclusively state that the cold sweats are upon me. And it isn't for reasons immediately recognisable by semi-professional procrastinators.

For thirty-seven consecutive entries in my newly established domain of virtual existence, I have refrained from entering the pleasure zone that is my imagination. It's as much the truth as it is a confession. I've posted thought after non-fictional thought about my life and times, with the occasional hint at what my legacy holds in store for the bearer of a cross-shaped key made of pure gold, as though my life were somehow worthy of being referenced chronologically or mistaken as conclusive proof of my existence by a well groomed man claiming to be Dan Brown.

It isn't. It never has been. It's an illusion instigated by zeros and ones, harnessed by the simplicity of a code I have never attempted to understand and stolen from the bookshelf of the library in the city of Kalaamity.

Since the first time I took baby steps along the expansive web, I have discovered that skipping merrily through my own infinite garden of assorted aesthetic delights while blowing enormous bubbles with Willy Wonka brand syrupy gum was a far more rewarding way of seeing out the mess that is my day-to-day reality; without much detriment to my day job, I might add. As I've skipped, I've more often than not trampled the very foundations of this paranormal existence: the stunning garden itself, whose flowers and scents have been reasons for my child-like exuberance and wide-eyed wonderment.

After a moment's self-scrutiny about ten minutes ago, as portions of my body which instigated thought were scratched by the hand of another, it became evident that my contributions elsewhere, mostly through comments at other sites, were of superior quality than my own muddled musings about a life so precious as to include no reference likely to reveal my true identity (I am the Eggman, goo-goo-ga-choo) here.

I also tripped over the notion that I'm a raving mad man with far too much time at his disposal. No news there. It was brought to my attention again recently, by someone other than myself, bringing me to conclude that the nature of the game itself was in serious jeopardy. Could it be that an army of invisible rogues were deployed and programmed to destroy the fibre of my existence? Unbloodylikely.

It got me thinking, because thinking is something I do even while pretending to work or pretending to be Marlon Brando's body double. On that note, do facial cigar burns wash out with soap?

I wondered whether I was giving myself unnecessary exploratory surgery by not tapping into the hidden nectar of forbidden fruit juices contained within. I wondered whether I was depriving myself of my natural propensity for melodrama (paraphrasing my own words left elsewhere today). I wondered whether I was trying too hard to be me that I had forgotten about a significant part of the real me that's been rattling the chains and demanding to be unleashed; the me that is not me at all but a masked part of me in leather pants and an exposed midriff o' plenty capable of stopping a cavalcade of wagons helmed by buxom babes with glasshour figures at the turn of the seventeenth century.

Then I wondered whether these feelings could be vastly different to those of a hit man without a contract for nigh on two months or those of an Olympic swimmer, whose newly acquired religious beliefs have persuaded him to grow extensive facial hair in preference to minimising drag through water.

The conclusion I reached was that it was so vastly different to any aspect of my life that it no longer registered on the radar. How would I know what it felt like to be either of those two people without adequate background information and a hip flask of liquefied inspiration?

It has dawned on me that it's high time I sank my pearly whites into a juicy concoction of f-f-f-fiction.

To my solitary reader out there I ask: Are you with me?



Technorati tags: Kaufman, inspiration, procrastination, fiction