While doing some non-creative work, I hit a pattern where I kept tripping up on the keys and mistyping; I decided I would take a break to practice typing for a bit to recenter my brain. At first, I was just forming the first words that came to mind into phrases; it felt sort of like when you create a sentence by clicking the first suggested word that pops up. I quickly got into a rhythm and next thing I know it became a poem. I decided to save it because I couldn't think of a better example of words that are arbitrary and sentences that are just semantics.
Four score and seven years ago, Abraham lincoln was giving a speech and he didn't want to go to the bathroom, but he did, He went to the bathroom and he didnt ever not, not go to the bathroom because it wasn't there and he didn't know where he could go so he went there instead. If I can type fast then I can write my book fast and that will mean the world to me. No amount of effort, sheer nobility, ostricization, nor paralleling of priorities will yield nor sway the monuments of democracy. I need to type faster. Help me type faster, la la la la blah blah blah. If you can type more than 30 words per minute then you are set. If you can type more than 60 words per minute then you may have a chance. And if you can possibly replicate the unquantifiable seasons of never ever letting the go get gone, then indubidably, you will have a better time. However if you can manage to do the done before doom deters demons, then if by all means, yet not, to be foreseeable in constitution with various unkempt variables. I am now writing the worlds longest short poem, it is unconsequentially prominent. If I were to type fast then it would be mutually beneficial to the non goings ons of the primary and privative world around us. In conjunction. But I digress, and now as I strive along the plain of successful venture, my words flourish and my wrists hurt. Never before has a mammouth mourned a mother so morbidly. For it truly is... morbin time. If I were for not, then not for, nor consequential to the predicament at hand. Testing, testing, one two three. If I can only. If only if only. the woodpecker's side. Upon a blue jay, it grew, alone with its bride. Never seek the truth, lest you seek the sigh. But upon blue eyes, the end is nigh. That was a poem I wrote. It was a massive failure. The purpose of this assignement is to never let them ever ever go without a beat, to rush down the row and land on my feat, to dance in the light and drink sunlight so sweet, only to suffer in lonehood, cold with defeat. I was able to write that poem a bit faster, so a success it was. When it comes out fast, it creates buzz. I still struggle with words that depart, and fix said words like repainting my art. My mind grows weary and my hand grows tired, of testing myself since Ive long since expired. I run to the lake and jump on the board, to fall down the well when I trip on the chord. I see fuzzy bright colors then smack the ground. Such a fitting sight for the nickel wise clown. I come to a close, and kneel and I bow, I am still typing slow, what do I do now? Write and type and practice and preach, let go of your doubts like the bold lose the leach. Stand up and parade, denounce and declare, as lord lady fortune ruffles her hair. Goodnight, goodbye, good evening, and good morrow, I'll see you all soon despite all my sorrow. I hope that by then I can type a bit faster, and conquer the words that, for now, are my master.
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