From the fourth floor of my nineteen-story house, I peek out of the tinted windows. These are my only windows to whatever is outside, and they're tinted yellow and black. I am the first person on the moon. I am the first person on the edge of the planet. Will I fall off, or am I bold enough to carry on?
That, I think, is what has been bothering me for so long. I do not live in a nineteen-story house and neither am I peeking through yellow-and-black windows. No, these colors do not have any significance either. They are not symbols or metaphors. I have been making everything up as I hammer my fingers onto the keyboard and weave these unfathomable lines of thoughts. I am not the first person on the moon. I am not the first person on the edge of the planet. In fact, there isn't even an edge. I am an insignificant speck of dust. I am not even Horton's Who.
I just counted the number of 'I's in the first two paragraphs- fifteen. Fifteen of the same alphabet repeated throughout. That is, despite whatever you might say, a bad start to an essay (if you'd call this one). "Of course not, repetition is an important literary device!", you might say. Horseshit, I say. These words have no intrinsic meaning. These horribly structured sentences are disgustingly unfathomable. That's the second time I've said 'unfathomable'. Third. My 9-year old sister writes better than I do: "Today, I woke up. Today, I ate breakfast. Today, I horsed around with my dog. I am very happy. I am not hungry, because I ate today. Today, I ate." You can understand what she's saying- she woke up, she ate, she's not hungry, and she's happy. But what of me? I woke up, but just so. I ate and so I'm not hungry, but just so. I am happy, and yet I am not. These words that I write mean nothing to me, and yet they mean everything. Being the extreme nihilist that I am, life has no intrinsic meaning, and yet it is more meaningful than a poem that I once wrote about my tenth-grade crush. I've forgotten her name long since. The most absurd of all is that it hasn't been so long- perhaps a year. What is more absurd than the most absurd is that I am yet to turn sixteen; this I will do in a month's time- yet what is most absurd about the more absurd than the most absurd is the incongruity of the facts with reality. I shall not elaborate on this, for it has become nothing less of a meaningless telephone message constructed at the time of a drunken stupor.