Fitful: active or occurring spasmodically or intermittently; not regular or steady.
We geeks are pretty much all symbolically fictionalized as dwarves in literature: reclusive, introverted, grumpy, and tinkering away in dark caves to make beautiful things other people want.
An introvert who works very hard not to be a pushover.
…in need of review.
Ginger beef: a little spicy, a little crispy, and seeming to blur cultural boundaries… but not really. Figure that out.
I’ve been sitting here for over an hour trying to get words out onto this blank screen.
Cleverness alludes me, as does any sort of structured creativity. It’s in these sorts of moments when curious things are borne from skewed minds, or so I have convinced myself could be true. After all, the boring everyday moments are not nearly as interesting as those peppered by the distractions of confusion, transition, and frustration.
My clever mind, it would seem, has a name and a voice, and he whispers quietly to me when I’m sitting on the bus in those too early moments of an average weekday commute. I’ve named him Roosta. It’s an allusion to something that makes me laugh. It’s clever. Thus, there it is, there it goes.
If you are herein beginning to presume odd things about my sanity or level state of mind, stop. I’m as balanced as life will allow at the moment. It is merely that — on occasion — it helps to cleave the bits of one’s selves into their separate bits and let them duke it out as need be. Let those bits chat, as it were.
Roosta glares back at me from the outside of the bus window. It’s dark outside. He only comes to visit when it’s dark out. I think I know why, but I don’t question it. We get so few moments like this as it is, I don’t really want to waste them considering the fragmented realities of it, do I? “Personalities are funny things.” He suggests this to me, and then we pass under the glow of a street lamp and he is momentarily gone. “They aren’t really meant to fit together, you know?”
“I would imagine that given chance and enough options eventually you’d find a matching pair.” I defend.
“Oh, sure.” He shrugs. “But that’s chance and luck, and all that goes with it. The odds might stack up occasionally, sure. But generally? Well, you’re everyday average personality is not going to be that match.”
“Is that a good thing?” I frown. “You seem indifferent.”
The bus pulls a sharp right into a transit station and parks along a wide concrete sidewalk. There is a shelter there and the light is brighter. Roosta withdraws. I am left with my thoughts and my iPod, white headphones plugged into my ears but the volume set to a nearly silent low, drowned out by the white noise rumble of the engines.