I had to write this for english class.
Desktop Tennis
I spend my days, as I always have for as far as I can remember, in a comfy chair,
Talking endlessly with people whose faces I am likely to never see, playing a game of mental tennis with one concept after another. Every now and then someone aces it, and something is born as the ball hits the wall.
In general though, it’s the same old same old. I quite like this routine, the…simplicity of it all. Back and forth, back and forth…
Splat.
The shattered ball gets all the glory in the end though, and not the player. From it’s thready, rubbery, chartreuse remains sprouts a beautiful flower, just itching to disperse what it has on the idly waiting public. It stretches its roots to the hearts and minds of us all, raptly taking hold of our attention for weeks upon weeks, its elegance and complexity leaving the spectators in awe. As it slowly grows and grows, eventually bursting into glorious bloom, the now enamored audience clambers for their own special piece of this glorious event, to become a part of this entrancing spectacle.
Eventually, however, we come to a time where the audience as well as the players must make a decision.
“Does the brain child live?”
“Or is it cruelly left to die alone, able now only to contemplate what could have so easily been?”
Often times the flower is thrown into the cold, dark nether regions of the subconscious, where it will inevitably wilt. Who’s to blame? If we had let it grow any farther, it could have gotten hurt. It can’t be helped if it was doomed to die.
But…
It’s those that survive that define my existence. I live to feed them, tend to them, and see them grow.
And so I sit, as I always have, in this comfy chair…
…playing tennis, and tending to my garden…
“Ho-hum.”
Discord
Light Style