A sickness

Despite whatever time this blog may inaccurately deem the time, it is, in actual fact, a quarter past three in the morning. That's 03:15 am, though I don't mean to insult anyone's (anyone?) intelligence. I've come to notice the page often contradicts the truth, but then, truth is relative. My time is not yours.
I'm awake in my home, alone. I'm attempting to work on my novel that's taken the better part of 5 years to write and is still utterly incomplete. It's an ambitious task, let no one tell you otherwise. In front of me is the laptop I've been staring into for hours upon hours and next to me, at either side, pages of notes and abstract scribblings. They make words, sentences formed within syntax.
The keys upon my laptop are coated in the invisible edges of my fingertips, my fingertips ache, and the touch pad that acts as a 'mouse' is blurred where I've swept my touch across it so often, as one is supposed to do. And I tire of typing. I type and type, and as I type, with the hopes of finally completing this manifold project, I dwell on how utterly hopeless the act may well be. Or is. How utterly hopeless all action is. And I feel terribly sick at this thought. I do not wish to type any more, but there's as little point to this as there is to anything else, and so, I may as well. I embody, so entirely, the ennui of the fictitious protagonist.
I wanted to post something I had written a short while ago, from another time when I felt sick.
I had since changed my mind. Here is a 'poem' from when I was in love:

Sitting there;

the remnants of our last encounter

lay in effigy of you

on the floor.

A pill; a filter; hair.

Your wild, dark, hair

sprawling.

My first act of violence.

We fucked voraciously that night,

trying to make each other arrive

at one another’s point.