of nothing again

what can i write about if it is not about clouds in cambridge, the sun in sicily or the poetry in new york? and i feel i have written enough about these. this constant search for novelty, this complete (mis?)appropriation of my time by passive tasks of reading and watching, this culture of information overconsumption broken down into three-minute youtube clips weighs me down. i suffer from a lack of novelty, my own writing turns against me in its pointlessness.

so here's an auden poem to the rescue. 

The Novelist

Encased in talent like a uniform

The rank of every poet is well known;

They can amaze us like a thunderstorm,

Or die so young, or live for years alone.

They can dash forward like hussars; but he

Must struggle out of his boyish gift and learn

How to be plain and awkward, how to be

One after whom none think it worth to turn.

For, to achieve his slightest wish, he must

Become the whole of boredom, subject to

Vulgar complaints like love, among the Just

Be just, among the Filthy filthy too,

And in his own weak person, if he can,

Must suffer dully all the wrongs of Man.