It is difficult to write – and particularly difficult to write science fiction – when you hold little hope for the future. Even more difficult when you know how many cautionary, prophetic, dystopian science fiction works are already being ignored. What good is it to write yet another story of the possible, the likely future, when nobody believes that we are already in the footnotes of that same dystopian future?
About what does one write, when one has as much ability to give a shit as in impacted bowel? Which is to say, I am…. I can’t. I just…can’t. And yet, I feel…compelled…to express myself. With absolutely no concomitant compulsion regarding subject matter. I can stir up no definite opinions, nothing that seems worthy of expression. Let alone anything that seems to require such effort. I do no give a flying prolapsed anus about any of it. Which is almost certainly little more than a defensive reaction to the wholesale slaughter of human/humane ideals that we see every day. But even recognizing that, and acknowledging the vanishingly small urge to express myself, and taking onto account my inherent laziness….
I can’t.
I also, it would appear, can’t stop.
If I had just a liiiiiiiitle more drive, I could be a passable politician.
Fuck that shit.
And good night.
I glanced at the clock above the stove, green, digital, commonplace.
It read 16:79.
I thought, “Oh god, where am I this time?”