I sit around and try to figure out what I should do. I then remember. I should write. I open my computer and type words. The words appear on my screen and I read them. Some are good. Some are not. I continue to write on the small chance that more will be good than not. I realize that it is not all about good and bad words, but that there is also story. I dream up a story. I open my computer and type the story. The story appears on my screen and I read it. Some parts are good. Others are not. I continue to write on the small chance that more will be good than not.

***

Charles looks up from the table. You should not expect him to see anyone. Charles eats alone. But do not judge Charles too quickly. While he eats alone, he is not lonely. Charles, if we pressed him, does not know what loneliness is. He could spout off the Oxford English Dictionary definition, and while he might miss a word or two, he would get the gist of at least the first three or so definitions. But if we pushed him for an explanation of what loneliness means to him personally, he would appear bewildered by the question. Charles may eat alone but he is not lonely.

The streaked window through which Charles’s gazes looks out over the gritty street. Men, women, and children walk by Charles. He examines each one and notes their clothing and attitude. Charles wonders who they are. And he wonders what motivates them to walk by his restaurant’s window on this day and this time. Charles splits a roll in two and butters one half with an entire pat of butter. He munches on the buttered roll as he looks out the window, wondering.

Charles brought a small notebook with him to the diner. He sketches notes into the notebook as he eats and watches. The wait staff stops by now and again to see how Charles is doing. He tells them he does fine and thanks them for their concern. He watches the wait staff and wonders what they are doing and if they were concerned. He shrugs and butters the remaining half of the roll.

A young woman walks into the restaurant. She sees Charles and waves. The woman is very nice looking. Charles waves back and writes something in his notebook. The woman walks to his table.

“Do you mind if I sit?” she asks. She does not wait for his response. She pulls the chair out and sits down facing Charles. Charles tries to look over her shoulder to see through the window, but the woman shifts to block his view. “People watching again, Charles? Am I not people enough for you?”

Charles takes another bite of the roll. He blushes and offers the woman the remaining bite. She shakes her head and Charles finishes the roll.

***

I reach for boredom and hope for its embrace. What more does creativity need as feed than the hours of nothingness and despair. I translate thoughts and feelings into scenes. I try not to imbue these scenes with my misgivings—but what hope of that have I?

If I plan then I fail to write. If I write then I fail to plan. Tricky contradictions make up the silence in my souls. Words like red bubbles reach up through my mind and seek restitution from my heart. I have no money to pay them. I have no heart to tell them of this fact.

Such stilted words do I produce this day. I relax and press and wonder what will come of this. No more games for me. I am hungry, though. Should I eat in loneliness or starve? The conflicts of my days I record in short sentences and simple words.