When the clock struck midnight to bring in the New Year I made two resolutions: Write something everyday, and read something everyday. That morning I made my way to a stationary shop, and I bought a journal. Nothing fancy, just one of those black and white composition notebook. The first thing I noticed when I opened the notebook was that staring at a blank page is scary as fuck. The second was that I had lost some of my ability to simply handwrite—I mean, no one really handwrite anymore, do we?

In sticking with my resolutions I have decided to start this blog, Plotlessone. I believe it will help me to put something down in writing, daily. Even if it is just the random, meaningless shit in my life, I am hoping that the old idiom is true: That one man’s shit is another man’s treasure or fertilizer.


Everyday so far I wake. Some people I know thank God for this, but I don’t. I don’t have that belief. I don’t thank anyone or anything, my eyes just open. I stare at the hospital white paint on my ceiling, and I try to decipher some sort of pattern in the paint, a face, an image, anything. Nothing usually come. Once I saw a sailboat sailing in the universe among the stars, but I am not that imaginative sober, it was just a bit of the night before carrying over to morning.

After about five minutes of staring my mind trails off on its own. I follow it. Sometimes I think about my dreams if I could remember them. Sometimes I think about death. Death usually holds my mind attention for a couple minutes or so. I think, what if I am dead, and the mechanism that holds all this together have us in some purgatory dreaming. Then I get fucked off that I am in limbo dreaming this life.

I stare out the window and I hear life outside, cars driving, people talking, the world turning on its axis. I look back inward, inside, and I see emptiness. I see an empty space in the bed next to me, which is usually the case. If the night before I got lucky with a stray just looking to bang, if she doesn’t leave I usually ask her to go after we fuck. I enjoy the solitude of my morning. I enjoy asking myself, what is my purpose? That question lingers with me all morning. Hovers over my head as I take a piss. Robes me as I set off to the kitchen to make coffee. Then I stand there engulfed in the whole question, and I say, my purpose is to make the best cup of coffee ever.

I grind it.

I press it

I pour it

I sip it.

I taste it.

I am disappointed in it.

And so the day begins.

10 thoughts on “Mornings

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