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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***DISCLAIMER***
I'm here purely for the books and not to make friends. So if you've got something to say pertaining books that you thick will tickle my fancy then speak up, otherwise take it someplace else.
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