I dabbled in ink and paper most part of the day, trying somehow, to make the frozen oceans ripple in a soft whisper and a cloud, motionless, in the midst of a storm. He read. Then stared. Then jeered - "What's your point?" I was a little struck, then elucidated. He proceeded next, to pick up several emblematic little knives and stab me in the...
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I dabbled in ink and paper most part of the day, trying somehow, to make the frozen oceans ripple in a soft whisper and a cloud, motionless, in the midst of a storm. He read. Then stared. Then jeered - "What's your point?" I was a little struck, then elucidated. He proceeded next, to pick up several emblematic little knives and stab me in the chest a few hundred times. Swell.
Writing is laborious. Writing is painful. Writing is the Devil.
You shall always (always) have a point; or die trying. But you cannot be too political. Or too contentious. You cannot be too eager. Or too dispassionate. They are superfluous accompaniments; ones best restricted. Your imagery cannot be tedious. Your projections should not be trivial. Flout the rules of syntax if you will; you might induce 'reading aloud', but run the risk of looking like a frustrated e. e. cummings.
I then proceeded to stare at the blur of a screensaver and wonder about the plausible irrelevance and sheer futility of this self-consumed "point-making" cerebral masochism, while little drops of blood formed on my forehead.
Masochist. Exhibitionist. Failure.
Perhaps one should side-step that inventive landmine - let the ink reconcile, the words sleep - and weep at these scenes. Or maybe, despite the pain and shreds of devastatingly ephemeral delight, one's actualities will live on in fragmented sentences and make the usual, a little pleasurable.
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