bottleneck

can’t I just…be alright? Just decide to move on and let things work out and be happy with this post-modern predicament we all find ourselves struggling to understand everyday while the world spirals out of coherence more and more with each passing minute. Newscasts, blogs, tweets, and snapchats…

…

…She pondered for a second that last entry…

…

No, it doesn’t work. The character had been angst-ridden and emotional the entire length of this narrative she had slaved over, and to change that now would be the lazy deus ex machina bullshit every hack blockbuster writer pulled after book 6 jumped the shark.

Real Rowling and Martin shit, not like King or Faulkner.

Can you use those two in the same breathe? Why not. Faulkner is unknown to whole generations of learned, avid readers, so to them Faulkner isn’t even eligible for greatness in the literary canon. A pantheon of prolific, inspirational and inspired writers with grit on the page and a sad deepness in their words exists over them. The classics.

A non-existent entity in a vacuum outside their experience. Eggers and Green, Foer and…Hemingway? For the trendy crowd certainly. A generation pretending to be lost while deluding themselves into thinking they identify with a generation that really was, but not in the way this new generation defines it. Not in a bad way. Historic. Cultural. Appropriate. (also defined differently by these two youths.)

Staring at the pages she decided to call it a night. Put the laptop to bed and grab that nightcap with her roommate. Misery loves company, but he is so busy that most of us just drink alone; pretending to be unhappy when really we wish we knew what unhappiness was. Apathetic doesn’t quite cover it. More like malaise…of the heart, not mind. Or both, she supposed. Perhaps we are lost (in that forgotten meaning of restless souls past) after all.

Nothing left to do but ponder away the seconds until dusk.