This Is A Pointless Story

No point, no paddle

Photo by Ashish R. Mishra on Unsplash

This is a pointless prose piece.

Just so you know, right up front. There will be no reason to ask for your time back. Should you choose to keep reading, you will only have yourself to blame.

The piece will be boring, dull, aimless, wandering, lost.

There will be no cats in this piece.

No sunrises, sunsets, or pearls of wisdom.

You might even ask yourself why the hell you are reading this.

I am asking myself why I am writing it.

Here we are in the same dumb ass boat.

The boat of pointlessness.

Nobody will be quoting or restacking this piece.

Hamish will not be superstacking this piece.

Most will not even scroll to the bottom, let alone hit the ‘like’ button.

This piece is exactly what it says it is—pointless, lonely, without a plot or a paddle.

You might ask yourself—what’s the point?

I am asking the same question.

You might accuse me of being a pointless person. You might charge me with a lack of optimism, heroic will-power, pointfulness, inspiration, glamor, or style.

Do you see me trying to defend myself?

Or maybe you will make a more rational, detached, objective diagnosis and conclude that I’m suffering from social media fatigue. Maybe you will figure that I’ve read too many stories with points or too many notes with cats or too many sunsets with messages about life being beautiful or short. Or maybe you will conclude I’m writing this to avoid writing something else—something controversial, something risky, something painful or stressful even.

Maybe you will continue to look for a point where there is none.

I know I am looking for one as I continue to write this boring piece of pointless prose.

I am searching for the significance of writing this right now.

I am not looking forward to getting to the end where I will be faced with the dilemma on whether to publish it or not.

What are the stakes, you might ask. What is the difference of publishing this versus not publishing this? Whose life will I change? What value will I offer?

Will this be precisely the piece of refreshing pointlessness a reader will need who has been too burdened and saturated with too many points?

A wary reader who has been drowning in cats, sunsets, and pearls of wisdom?

Will this piece inadvertently make a reader breathe a little deeper with the deliciously anti-climactic disappointment of finding no point inside?

Why should I presume to know what my writing might mean or not mean to myself or another?

I don’t even know why the stars are the way they are or why the hell the moon must wax and wane so damned much.

Photo by Benjamin Voros on Unsplash

© Carlo Zeno 2025

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If you have gotten this far, you will note that not only did I decide to publish this piece of pointlessness, but I even had the audacity to put my name on it. I have no excuses for this behavior. It is what it is—pointless.

If you like the idea of a writer who writes what’s forefront of mind, has no idea what he is doing or why he’s doing it or what he will write next, consider subscribing below.

Thanks for dropping by.