Alone With His Thoughts.

[JCC]

There is no great full moon.
The star's twinkle is actually little more than a dull-grey tint.
There are no grandiose occurences or a wonderful fanfare.
There's just a man, sat, alone, with his thoughts.

He'd tried integrating into society.
Really, he'd given it his all.
But he always felt underwhelmed with society,
As a whole.

Nobody ever really understood the man.
He's alone, constricted.
He's bordering on psychosis,
And his fingernails are dirty.

The man has been rather unkempt for a while.
But he soldiers on.
He's a trooper after all, it's his nature.
But the man has never needed anything other than his thoughts.

You see, this man decided that the best thing in life was thought.
It was his best friend. His only friend.
Moreover, it was really the only friend that he'd ever needed,
Intangible chemical impulses would have a hard time stabbing you in the back, after all, they're your chemicals.

But one day, in his self-enforced isolation, he began to long for company.
It was strange, he'd never really felt a need for it before.
It wasn't really a feeling that he liked, either.
He had decided that feeling lonely was rather negative. And also, oddly cold.

He didn't require anything special of said company.
He asked for no trinkets or gifts.
In fact, all that the man wanted,
Was for someone to share these thoughts with.

It would have mattered very little, really, whether they even agreed with him.
They could have thought his thoughts to be preposterous, for all he cared.
Just a little human interaction would save him from his boredom.
And boredom is a terrible waste of time.

The man didn't want to waste time.
He never really had.
He was vehemently against procrastinating,
If you're going to live, then live well, if you're not, you might as well just end it really, you're only wasting your efforts.

So, he decided that he wanted a companion of some sorts.
A talking buddy.
But there was nobody available. The man had made himself rather unexposed.
In fact, unexposed to the point where he couldn't find anyone to converse with.

So he had an idea.
"I'll talk to myself, he said."
A capital plan, indeed. So the man talked to himself,
Sometimes for hours on end.

He'd compliment himself.
Flirt with himself.
Have sex with himself.
Though he'd done the last one before any sort of epiphany, thoughts don't participate in coitus that often.

He was overall, a rather happy man.
Or at least, happier than the people who allowed themself to be hurt.
Hurt by other people,
Which is, obviously, rather impossible when you talk to yourself.

But the man couldn't help feeling empty somehow.
It felt like he was half a man.
He wasn't, obviously. He had two arms, two legs, he was a fine figure of a human.
He just felt a bit lonely.

[tickingstitch]

Infinitely Unsatisfied... Painted well with your words.

[Apathy's_Child]

You know, I think this would work better as a tale told in prose. It has a quality of parable about it.

[JCC]

Yeah, I was thinking that as I wrote it, that it was much more prosaic than poetic. Maybe I'll re-do it. Thanks for noticing that, though.

[Apathy's_Child]

I write a shitload of incredibly short pieces of prose (I don't like to call them short stories, as they're not, really). I think the practice they give you is incredibly valuable, and also, as they're so quickly written, I find you get a lot of ideas down that you'd otherwise forget about. I probably write about four a day - you get your creative practice even on days when you don't have a lot of time, and if it's not good enough to stand up on its own as a piece of art, you get to file the idea away for the day you can improve it, before it's forgotten and lost to you.

[JCC]

Alright then, here we are, put into prose. I've added some parts and fixed some things, and I think it flows better this way, so thanks for the input:


There is no great full moon. The star's twinkle is actually little more than a dull-grey tint. There are no grandiose occurences or a wonderful fanfare. There's just a man, sat, alone, with his thoughts. He'd tried integrating into society. Really, he'd given all that he had to give, to the point where he became rather weary of his constant efforts. But he always felt underwhelmed with society as a whole.

Nobody ever really understood the man. He's alone, constricted. He's bordering on psychosis, and what's worse, his fingernails are dirty. The man has been rather unkempt for a while. But he soldiers on, he's a trooper after all, it's his nature. But the man has never needed anything other than his thoughts.

You see, this man decided that the best thing in life was thought. It was his best friend. It was his only friend. Moreover, it was really the only friend that he'd ever needed, intangible chemical impulses would have a hard time stabbing you in the back, after all, they're your chemicals.

But one day, in his self-enforced isolation, he began to long for company. It was strange, he'd never really felt a need for it before. It wasn't really a feeling that he liked, either. He had decided that feeling lonely was rather negative. And also, it was oddly cold. Nobody's ever really given as much thought as they should to the temperature values of being lonely. It ought to be a geological study, in this narrator's opinion.

He didn't require anything special of said company. He asked for no trinkets or gifts. In fact, all that the man wanted, was for someone to share these thoughts with.

It would have mattered very little, really, whether they even agreed with him. They could have thought his thoughts to be preposterous, for all he cared. Just a little human interaction would save him from his boredom. And boredom is a terrible waste of time.

The man didn't want to waste time, he never had. He was vehemently against procrastinating, "if you're going to live", he would say, (to himself, of course), "then live well. If you're not, you might as well just end it really, you're only wasting your efforts."

So, he decided that he wanted a companion of some sorts. A talking buddy.
But there was nobody available. The man had made himself rather unexposed.
In fact, unexposed to the point where he couldn't find anyone to converse with.

So he had an idea. "I'll talk to myself", he said. "I've done it for quite a long time already, so there's no need for practice". A capital plan, indeed. So the man talked to himself, sometimes for hours on end.

He'd compliment himself. Flirt with himself. Have sex with himself.
Though he'd done the last one before any sort of epiphany, thoughts don't participate in coitus that often.

He was overall, a rather happy man. Or at least, happier than the people who allowed themself to be hurt. Hurt by other people, which is, obviously, rather impossible when you talk to yourself.

But the man couldn't help feeling empty somehow. It felt like he was half a man. He wasn't, obviously. He had two arms, two legs, he was a fine figure of a human.

He just felt a bit lonely.

[Apathy's_Child]

I prefer it that way, it definitely reads like a parable now. Good stoof.

One more small suggestion - I think if I were you, in the second to last line, I'd add a semi-colon. "He had two arms, two legs; he was a fine figure of a human." I just think it adds to the impact of the last line. But that's probably something most people wouldn't even notice.

[JCC]

I can't believe that I missed out my favourite punctuation piece; the semi-colon, haha.

I love the semi-colon so much that I often use it where there should just be a comma. Don't ask me why; it's a fetish.

[Apathy's_Child]

Dude. Semi-colons can sex up ANYTHING.