Whenever we lay pen to paper, finger to button, sound to lips, we are saying something. I am typing this, I obviously want to say something. But whether I want to show what I am saying or whether I want to hide it in an eloquent tangle of literary wire is another matter.
What does he want to say? Why is he even writing a blog? Is this just another mess of nonsense, unsure what he is doing, unsure of the possibilities strewn out before him?
“I love deadlines. I love the whooshing noise they make as they go by." Douglas Adams
Is he just postponing the inevitable collapse of his moral? That ambition he claims to hold so tight and to let flow so free, is it waning?
"Writing is utter solitude, the descent into the cold abyss of oneself." Franz Kafka
Or is he doing something else entirely? Accepting a truth and working on it. Shaping it. Things seem so solid until they are not. The reality we are living in is not the one we are writing in. The reality that we read is rarely the same one that happened. It has been shaped and molded into something smoother.
“A good novel tells us the truth about its hero; but a bad novel tells us the truth about its author.” G.K. Chesterton
I don't know what I'm really trying to say here. But I know I am saying something. All words are meaningful, even if they don't seem so. You wouldn't shine a shit, but if it was all you had in a blank slate of an empty world, you wouldn't forget it.
Perhaps I am saying nothing. But in a world where nothing is real, something must be.
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