Postmodern Boredom

I find myself with very little to say. That is the problem with Ecclesiastes. Can I ever do more than point to something else? Invoke an old emotion? Not really. I might be witty, but I can never be original, and I'm probably not even witty. What a pain. Some people write grand stories. Joyce was a fan of invoking old myths, but allegorically, subtly. That's witty. It means something. But I am too tired of it all to think.
The only thing really personal, really vulgar, anywhere close to original, is a journal. I keep one. Under lock and key, though. I don't trust you enough. You shan't read it. I like you to much to tell you the truth. Truth is a blessing, but the truths I keep are my own little secrets. I don't want to hurt the status quo.