Staring at the Pointed Star

I’ve stared at many walls in my lifetime.

In fact, I do believe that I’ve also written a blog post that opened with a scene of myself staring at a wall.

It’s not that I’m fresh out of ideas - those come to me like water down a drain pipe. And so do the words to equivocate them upon people like you. I’m not in trouble as a writer.

I just realized that I have spent more time in my life staring at shit than I have done doing shit. Random, lifeless and inanimate objects.

Not the Television screen, albeit Ray Bradburry, in Fahrenheit 451, alludes to it as a giant talking wall - which it essentially is.

A chair on the side of the road. A desk in an empty office. The floor of a hotel lobby. The ceiling of my bedroom. An empty podium.

In this instance, I’m staring at another wall. This time, however, the wall is slightly different. There are words on this wall. Government words. Secret words.

And that fucking eagle.

I swear, if I ever see that Eagle in the next plain of existence - we will be having serious words. Until then, I have to sit here and wait.

Wait. Wait. Wait.

Did that Eagle just laugh at me? I swear that eagle just tilted back its head and laughed. It laughed so hard the freaking aliens must’ve heard it.

I do sense a great lack of giant alien space rays and teleportation in this room though.

Maybe the Eagle didn’t laugh at all. Maybe that was just my imagination. Maybe deep within my consciousness I created a scene to help stave off the boredom of government that seems to have accrued within my psyche over the last seven years - if only for a brief and terrifying moment of excitement.


Check my watch. Has it already been 15 seconds? Man, time sure flies around here!

Check the magazines littered across the coffee table; VICE, GQ, Time, and Life. All wonderful magazines. Oh, look at that! They’ve even got a copy of Ranger Joe’s catalogue here.

15 minutes.

I’ve been thinking about getting that pair of sunglasses for the field. Oakleys are just too expensive for my paycheck.

1 hour.

VICE always has something interesting to say about the absurdity of the modern human condition. I wish they’d just hire me already.

1 hour, 45 minutes.

As the analogue clock on the wall slowly revolves in its infinite loop of nuclear weight measurements, so does my knowledge gained from popular waiting room magazines.

Eventually, I’ve read every interesting article in the bloody place. No cell phone in this place. No laptop. They took those at the door.

At this point, I’ve given up on waisting my time with keeping the time. Time after all, when stuck in a windowless box, is relative and entirely irrelevant. If it weren’t for that rotating wheel of fortune - made by the blind - on the wall above the door, I wouldn’t even know what time it was.

As for my sanity - well who’s really sane in this world anyways? I bide my time by ripping off the back pages of Men’s Health - a magazine I know that no one in this office will ever read, and drawing caricatures and playing tic-tac-toe with imaginary people.


So, this is boredom? Complete and utter inanity of activity.

The time passes. Oragami cranes are constructed. Paper planes are flung.

Hmm… there are thirteen points in that star, right? There’s a name for each one of those too. I think.

Snow falls. Icicles form.

Scenes from my past pass through my mind like gallstones through my bladder.

Snow melts. Flowers bloom.

Finally, after a sorted amount of time fading in and out of dream state, my eyes begin to droop closed. My head begins to fall.

“Excuse me?” a voice asks.

My head pops back up. I glare at this woman dressed in all black who has come into my world and totally turned it upside down. Again. I feel hung nearly over.

“He will see you now.”