The songs of butterflies and wings flapping in the magical forest named serenity.

I’m tired of jibber jabber. I grow so bored of flashy language. Poetic words thrown together in metaphors too pink and yellow to understand (trust me, even I don’t know how metaphors can be pink and yellow). The whole drama of it all!

I’ve always been searching for a way off stage.

The politics and their grey philosophy, their robotic unconsciousness that leads us into plummeting selfishness. The capitalism and black Friday’s whole “get the biggest and bestest thing before anyone else” scene that gets people trampled and fighting on store floors. The school system and the laborious slavery that we tie our hands with, shaping our cuffs with invisible dollar bills. Even television has lost its magic for me.

Drama, for me now, is found in the most complex classical compositions. The deepest of philosophy. The most gruesome of horror. The most real and unorchestrated pornography. Live, soulful music sprinkled with the blissful mistakes and vibrato of nervousness. That is my drama appeal.

Outside of that, I search for the ceasing of searching. I look for the invisible. I listen for the inaudible. I wait for dreams of impossibility. I live for the lessons of death. I count the infinite.

I am not the product of this body and these fingers and the keyboard. I am not the thoughts reading the words as I splay them out. I am not even limited by the primitivity of English and what word I can and cannot create. Fuck you, autospeller, who underlines the words I fall most in love with.

Being a writer is beginning to mean so much more than writing down words. When I took on the title of a writer to myself (for example, I would tell the world who asked what I did, “I’m a writer” because it could mean anything in the world) I was not in love with the English language. I do not revel myself in the times that I sit crosslegged on my bed and watch the stringing of words light up keyboard. No, being a writer meant experiencing the world. Experiencing life. It was my license to ask big questions. “Why am I here?” “Who am I?” “Where is here?” “What even is the material of what I refer to as I?” These are scary to be thrown around without telling somebody, “It’s okay, I’m a writer.”

“Oh!” they say. “What do you write?” they ask next, with reasonable means to.

“Oh, shit,” I reply. “I could tell you that I write stories…” (almost a lie) “…or that I create the greatest poems…” (what’s a poem?) “… or that my latest character is so fascinating, how could I ever have thought up such a living, breathing entity!” (my creations are barely names, much less characters). I could tell you that. “But instead, I will tell you that I write just as you write. In the shower, on the drive home from work, in your sleep behind spasming eyes, you write the same story that I do.”

I just waste my time solidifying the story into feeble, squirrely words.


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