I am writing all these letters. These jumbled up squiggly lines on a crumpled piece of paper I found lying on the floor. I am clenching my fist, my nails digging my palm. Frustrated. Annoyed. I am trying, believe me I am. I just can’t get the words out.
They are there. In my brain, my thoughts are there. I just can’t reach them. I know two languages fluently, maybe three. But my words need a language that hasn’t been invented yet. My words need a funnel that will enable them to flow neatly without spilling into nothingness. But where do I find a funnel that channels the abstract?
Fucking abstract. The vague, the unknown, the blob of mushy gray. I hate it. I despise my lack of creativity. I loathe writers. I hate them for using the words of a known language the way they do. I hate them for appealing to ethos and pathos and logos when my writing is mere bathos. Writing? I wouldn’t even call this piece of shit writing. It’s like the USB cords that secretly get jumbled up at night. I don’t know how to un-do their mess.
Oscar Wilde says that life is really years defined in chaos. I hate him for saying that. I hate all those who say the truth using lies. Because that is the worst kind of truth. If you feel something, you’re guilty as charged. If you don’t, you’re still guilty. The perfect catch-22.
Life is a chaos. Everything is a chaos. Is that why we desperately cling on to any conformity or normality we find in ourselves? Because we can’t fucking find our way out of this pandemonium.
They tell you to live your dreams. They tell you to live. How the fuck are you to live when you can’t even fucking survive? It’s like they’re coercing you to fly high just so they can watch you fall and break your skull. Sadistic creatures.
So as I sit to type this up, all I can say is, I despise the nature of truth.
No comments:
Post a Comment