My Parenthetical Nightmare.

It all began with a stupid little sentence.












It was a long night.

It was a long (and rather boring) night.

It was a long (and rather - but not too - boring) night.

It was a long (and rather - but not, and especially not, too - boring) night.

It was a long (and rather - but not, and - even if I say so myself - especially not, too - boring) night.

It was a long (and rather - but not, and - even if I (since I ought to know) say so myself - especially not, too - boring) night.

It was a long (and rather - but not, and - even if I (since - especially since - I ought to know) say so myself - especially not, too - boring) night.

It was a long ( and rather - but not, and - even if I (since - especially, considering I'm an authority, since - I ought to know) say so myself - especially not, too - boring ) night.

It was a long (and rather - but not, and - even if I (since - especially, considering (since I am the author) I'm an authority, since - I ought to know) say so myself - especially not, too - boring) night.

It was a long (and rather - but not, and - even if I (since - especially, considering (since I am, and you know this to be true, the author) I'm an authority, since - I ought to know) say so myself - especially not, too - boring) night.






















" And one might ask 'If a single sentence takes so long to say so little, is it still a single sentence?'"

I've always wanted to write something like this, so here goes.



Happiness is a fragile state of being. Like the silver strands of a spider's web, reflected on a bright, moonlit night - you cannot help but be fascinated by it. You marvel at its texture and soon, without even noticing, you begin to hear the dew-drops fall from the bright, broad leaves of a short, stout tree. You notice the sound is irregular and yet, in some strange way, rhythmic as well. You close your eyes, ignoring the beautiful, fragile strands spun by some hungry spider, speckled with red. You strain your ears and wonder - what is it that I hear? You remember Beethoven's 5th Symphony and it strikes you! This is not the same! But it isn't like the Pussycat Dolls either - rather, it sounds like dew-drops falling from bright, broad leaves. And while you're listening, you cannot help but smell the crisp night-air. What does it smell like, you ask. You don't know. But, like the shrill voice of the night watchman who guards the Indian Overseas Bank, this is an absolutely meaningless question. You smell it, breathing deeply, while the dewdrops fall, ignored, on some hapless insect beneath them. Soon, you get desensitized to the smell, and get back to viewing the spider's web. Only this time, the moon is behind a cloud and you cannot see a thing.

What is happiness, you ask.

I don't know. I didn't understand this any more than you did.