![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
aplaypen--
There is almost nothing that i would rather do than blog about personal issues. I don't believe i have any other recourse than to put them to rest but i also don't wish to re-hash.
There is nothing that i have to offer anyone else. This is not an author's insecurity: this is an absolute actual, real-life person's lack of confidence. Literary bullshit aside, i have nothing to offer. I would have already written the thing that made the difference for you, yes? You must know this already or you would not be intrigued in the slightest to believe there is something here for you. Worse still, if you believed there was something here for you that wasn't already emptied of real content from the instantaneous trickle of fingertips to tripping keystrokes teasing you toward putting together syllables, phrases and clauses, you would have already questioned the reality of it all. If there were something, that is.
No, still nothing, and it is the nothing, that, when they tell you to write what you know, is the absolute, the be-all-end-all, the actual nothing that disguises the known, that you have nothing else at your disposal when it comes to the supposed writing time... and yet you remain.
You thought you existed in the writing time and you were wrong. You exist only in the time between. Sometimes you actually do things in that domain. Mostly you wander. All the while and especially within this sentence, the you is i and i am lost in a wondrous state... being...
It is a wondrous land, the nothingness... though now it is something far different once you have named it. It holds wonders. You do not. You and i do not... though now the distinction is meaningless.
I cannot tell of this place or sense of place (please forgive me) though i will not ask forgiveness. It is not always given me and i rarely have access freely given. I do not wish any longer to fight for its terroir, much less anyone else's territory. Nor my own.
If i write a thing into existence anymore, i am far too complicit, in so doing, for my own nothingness.
I will not willingly be the agent of my own undoing, but i am far too the iconoclast to do elsewise.
Is this play? Is this the pen that pretends it is not a sword? Can i sow, reap and actually share?
I don't know.
Fine, there is a thing very well known and i choose not to write about it for the only confident reason i have ever known: it is done and can never be undone. It is wholly so and wholly other to the experience of men and women, alike, and it will always be so... unless...
There is almost nothing that i would rather do than blog about personal issues. I don't believe i have any other recourse than to put them to rest but i also don't wish to re-hash.
There is nothing that i have to offer anyone else. This is not an author's insecurity: this is an absolute actual, real-life person's lack of confidence. Literary bullshit aside, i have nothing to offer. I would have already written the thing that made the difference for you, yes? You must know this already or you would not be intrigued in the slightest to believe there is something here for you. Worse still, if you believed there was something here for you that wasn't already emptied of real content from the instantaneous trickle of fingertips to tripping keystrokes teasing you toward putting together syllables, phrases and clauses, you would have already questioned the reality of it all. If there were something, that is.
No, still nothing, and it is the nothing, that, when they tell you to write what you know, is the absolute, the be-all-end-all, the actual nothing that disguises the known, that you have nothing else at your disposal when it comes to the supposed writing time... and yet you remain.
You thought you existed in the writing time and you were wrong. You exist only in the time between. Sometimes you actually do things in that domain. Mostly you wander. All the while and especially within this sentence, the you is i and i am lost in a wondrous state... being...
It is a wondrous land, the nothingness... though now it is something far different once you have named it. It holds wonders. You do not. You and i do not... though now the distinction is meaningless.
I cannot tell of this place or sense of place (please forgive me) though i will not ask forgiveness. It is not always given me and i rarely have access freely given. I do not wish any longer to fight for its terroir, much less anyone else's territory. Nor my own.
If i write a thing into existence anymore, i am far too complicit, in so doing, for my own nothingness.
I will not willingly be the agent of my own undoing, but i am far too the iconoclast to do elsewise.
Is this play? Is this the pen that pretends it is not a sword? Can i sow, reap and actually share?
I don't know.
Fine, there is a thing very well known and i choose not to write about it for the only confident reason i have ever known: it is done and can never be undone. It is wholly so and wholly other to the experience of men and women, alike, and it will always be so... unless...
