Guts

Felt it in the bones, felt it like a sword dragging its way through a loose skin, stretched into the floor, splayed in a room, continuously stepped on and knead, the inevitability. Does anyone, two, three, four, want to take a guess of what is inevitable, incidental, incendiary, and indomitable? The thought of another creeping idea, the merging of a story and reality, and with it, my whole life, a whole brain dedicated to one and singular thing: to be alive, doing something that is arbitrary.

A treat to a life so battered with incongruent mistakes and fluffy thoughts, there I am, only crawling around the world, writing, and then creating, and then uncreating, for I am also a subject here stuck between two worlds: one that I hate, thrust upon into, enslaved from birth, and one that I love, which is the one that I look for and approach. So the pen speaks, and then it pains me, and then the reality makes someone laugh/tear up/forget/vomit and I have to nod with a knowing glance. I wrote what you love, I love what I write, and because of that, I love you, and I love everything about you, even the things that are ugly and uncreative.

The things that I write, have much to do with myself. If I am the most important person in the universe, then what I write is the most important thing ever written. If I am the most worthless person in the universe, then what I write is the most worthless thing ever written. If I am somewhere in between, then the rubric is but a labyrinth of intrusive feelings, both proud and terrified, a slight edge, or a crumbling, mountainous, gigantic leap, from one corner to the other. I am the writer that writes in between those two extremes, but my position is not secured, and I am not safe in this head of mine, if it is going to keep writing pointlessly. I know that I am writing for somebody’s sake, but that person may yawn, and then, I will be devastated in the little, miniscule, ephemeral, subatomic space that my life is accommodated in.

The liberal in me, the heart of mindless tepidness, wants to keep doing thing what I have been doing, not upsetting anyone while pretending I’m offended by the indirect consequences of my actions. There I am, waving bye, and writing by, every single thought without a care. I represent accordingly, I nod when I smile, I cry and detest and poison when violence is ever detected, and there go my words. But there is someone more detestable, someone who craves power to bend it, and mold it, and expand it, and distribute it equally, worthily, and those words also fight and struggle to live. They fight against each other, but I am weak, I am a weak writer with strong ideas, or, a large writer with thin ideas, or a smart writer with dumb ideas worded smartly, or a dumb writer, aware of her own dumbness, flailing with stories they don’t understand.

The condition in untenable, the contradiction is death itself when not comprehended and studied, just like life itself, I write, but I am not a written life, I am alive, alive and with the capability, though not the drive or will or desire, to enact change. Words, then, are written furiously and with enough passion that they are deemed powerful, but in the bones they are not, which are so brittle. I am the modern abyss, the post-etcetera, etcetera, which way it sounds to me, that I am droning endlessly about myself in questions with answers that are obvious and powerful, but instead are obfuscated in the jargon of my own desperation. What can I face, if I write like this, what cannot I face, if I live in this manner. I have to talk a talk and fly a fly, but I can’t work a work I am always continuously intrepidly uninterestingly writing, writing, writing, then stopping.