So here's a product of both insomnia AND loneliness. A winning combination!:
Sleep deprivation has led me to type this. Right now I’m not necessarily unconscious, but I am not conscious either. To be honest I am too tired to conceptualize just how conscious I am, or really whether I am indeed awake at all. I’ve had dreams similar to this, in which I’d sit in front of a laptop typing. Then again, maybe I was awake during those times. It’s hard to tell. After all, reality and dreams are only defined by present experience, and at the moment both are soggy and indistinguishable.
Writers of consciousness generally have a pre-decided purpose for writing. I am not writing because I have anything specific to say; rather, I am writing because it simply seemed like the right thing to do at this moment – to open up Microsoft Word and start typing about how sleep deprivation has led me to type this.
But you’ll most likely get bored if I don’t at least feign some higher intent in my writing, so I’ve, arbitrarily but validly, decided to…
Yes, that’s what sleep deprivation does. It leads to have the urge to say something clever or witty, and then it robs you of the actual content – the actual cleverness and wittiness.
It seems like simply going to bed would be an ideal resolution to such a problem, but then I’d lose that artistic sacrifice of sleep deprivation. That quixotic act of nobility, of refusing the nurturing that the brain and body so deeply need.
But I just realized that this sleep deprivation has led me to make an abundance of grammatical errors. I can’t afford that. Thus I shall go to bed. Nothing distresses me more than making grammatical errors. Revealing the un-erudite, barbaric side of me. The stupidness in me. And there I went – I just made up a word. Stupidness. I must have had a lot of it to use that word instead of the correct term, “stupidity”.
But then again, I don’t think I meant stupidity. I meant stupidness. Maybe this dream/reality hallucination of existence is enriching my vocabulary, removing the filtering effects of consciousness and liberating me into a word of vocabularical freedom. After all, if the dictionary provides me with no adjective form of “vocabulary”, then am I so vocabularily impotent that I cannot create my own, as needed?
Well, I’m going to arbitrarily go to bed now. Maybe my vocabularical enlightenment will leave me. It will. It’s sad to envision, but it’s probably for the best. The last thing I need is a vocabularical Tyler Durden accompanying me.
This is probably the longest written work I have ever written in which I did not proofread anything. I could testify that it’s the result of artistic cunning and bold literary confidence, but really it’s because I’m too tired to read. I can read words, but I can’t read sentences. I can think thoughts, but I can’t…
Can’t come up with that clever and witty way to end this piece. And why am I even calling this a “piece”? Pretentiousness, no doubt. This isn’t a piece. Or is it? I suppose if Jackson Pollock traded in his buckets of paint and his canvases for a laptop equipped with Microsoft Word, he might produce something like this. Actually, I know he wouldn’t. I’m just being stupid. It’s my **** stupidness getting in the way again.
Oh well. I’m being stupid for denying myself sleep so I’ll just end this now. Not in the metaphorical sense. In the CTRL S type random title ENTER point cursor at X button and click it, effectively putting a close to this horrid thinkpiece.
Yeah.
Sleep deprivation has led me to type this. Right now I’m not necessarily unconscious, but I am not conscious either. To be honest I am too tired to conceptualize just how conscious I am, or really whether I am indeed awake at all. I’ve had dreams similar to this, in which I’d sit in front of a laptop typing. Then again, maybe I was awake during those times. It’s hard to tell. After all, reality and dreams are only defined by present experience, and at the moment both are soggy and indistinguishable.
Writers of consciousness generally have a pre-decided purpose for writing. I am not writing because I have anything specific to say; rather, I am writing because it simply seemed like the right thing to do at this moment – to open up Microsoft Word and start typing about how sleep deprivation has led me to type this.
But you’ll most likely get bored if I don’t at least feign some higher intent in my writing, so I’ve, arbitrarily but validly, decided to…
Yes, that’s what sleep deprivation does. It leads to have the urge to say something clever or witty, and then it robs you of the actual content – the actual cleverness and wittiness.
It seems like simply going to bed would be an ideal resolution to such a problem, but then I’d lose that artistic sacrifice of sleep deprivation. That quixotic act of nobility, of refusing the nurturing that the brain and body so deeply need.
But I just realized that this sleep deprivation has led me to make an abundance of grammatical errors. I can’t afford that. Thus I shall go to bed. Nothing distresses me more than making grammatical errors. Revealing the un-erudite, barbaric side of me. The stupidness in me. And there I went – I just made up a word. Stupidness. I must have had a lot of it to use that word instead of the correct term, “stupidity”.
But then again, I don’t think I meant stupidity. I meant stupidness. Maybe this dream/reality hallucination of existence is enriching my vocabulary, removing the filtering effects of consciousness and liberating me into a word of vocabularical freedom. After all, if the dictionary provides me with no adjective form of “vocabulary”, then am I so vocabularily impotent that I cannot create my own, as needed?
Well, I’m going to arbitrarily go to bed now. Maybe my vocabularical enlightenment will leave me. It will. It’s sad to envision, but it’s probably for the best. The last thing I need is a vocabularical Tyler Durden accompanying me.
This is probably the longest written work I have ever written in which I did not proofread anything. I could testify that it’s the result of artistic cunning and bold literary confidence, but really it’s because I’m too tired to read. I can read words, but I can’t read sentences. I can think thoughts, but I can’t…
Can’t come up with that clever and witty way to end this piece. And why am I even calling this a “piece”? Pretentiousness, no doubt. This isn’t a piece. Or is it? I suppose if Jackson Pollock traded in his buckets of paint and his canvases for a laptop equipped with Microsoft Word, he might produce something like this. Actually, I know he wouldn’t. I’m just being stupid. It’s my **** stupidness getting in the way again.
Oh well. I’m being stupid for denying myself sleep so I’ll just end this now. Not in the metaphorical sense. In the CTRL S type random title ENTER point cursor at X button and click it, effectively putting a close to this horrid thinkpiece.
Yeah.
