Toward revolutions

Daniel lies on his back, eyes open to the ceiling, blurring his vision so that the cream canopy seeps down over the walls and the room melts into a haze of off- white. Today is another day. Not that day in which all things take place but a day in which all things are thrown aside. That day in which ideas come and go like visitors and where everything is fluid. The worst part is Daniel knows it. He can feel the aching complacency growing heavy and solidifying in his bones as though it were a natural process.

As the world is bathed in a creamy blur he has an idea. An idea for a piece. He will write out his frustration and his anxiety toward revolutions. A revolution against revolutions if you will. The usual questions assault his mind. Medium? Form? Language? It is probably not worth writing. He tracks the idea instead; where it came from and where it will stop:

'I heard a song yesterday, about being a revolution. It was disgusting and made me want to hurl rocks at young people. The revolution went something like this: I (the instigator of this new avant garde) am indefinable, I defy you to label me, to pigeon hole me. I am a million things at once, so much so that I cannot even give you a cohesive answer for my dynamism. Perhaps one word would suffice one word can sum up my brilliant, erratic, unpeggable character: I am a revolution.

'That is no revolution, a revolution stands and is a consistent torpedo through society. It runs a course that is predictable and steady but because of the wavering and crying and bending within the majority of culture a revolution stands out. The whole idea though kills me; I want to begin a revolution but it is beyond me if only an idea could be birthed by me and nurtured and grown into maturity by somebody else. I think that society has enough babies though. Perhaps that is why no- one can raise up mature ideas anymore. We have petulant children of thought exploding all over the earth in magazines, newspapers, televisions and movies. My thoughts are no better though. I have no firm missile to launch into the bowels of society and rupture a response. I simply just lay here and wrestle with myself and debate and whine about how I cannot pick up my stories where I leave them. Somebody else will have to do it.'

Daniel put his pad down on top of the alarm clock that would not ring and slid over the opposite side of his bed facing the wall. He let out a large sigh and let darkness cross his eyelids. His bedroom was neat. Across the side of the room, opposite his bed, was a large study desk which also doubled as a book shelf. Along it were volumes of poetry from the English greats as well as literature from contemporary writers whom he found amusing: Dave Eggers, Zadie Smith, Don Delilo, Chuck Palahniuk and Charles Bukowski. At the end of the room was a large window which overlooked the park behind his house. Just below the sill was a window seat covered in all sorts of accumulated boxes and unfinished projects. Spray cans, canvasses, large sheets of paper, art books, pens, paints and all sorts lay strewn about the neglected end of his room. Daniel would fall asleep for another two hours before waking up again. Upon which he would again sigh then throw together some clothes and go and drink bad coffee down the road. The coffee, set against his brain and coupled with the weight of complacency would drive him to head home and fall asleep again on the lounge. For now though, he is still thinking about how he will never fall back asleep in his single bed; he opens his eyes for a second and staring at the wall he forgets everything he ever thought about.