I must write.
No longer must thoughts remain in my head to atrophy there, or waltz around pell-mell only to orchestrate mayhem and leave. I must take control of what goes in there, and more importantly, what comes out.
How will control come to be? I don't know. I hate to say it - the fear of admitting that I'm almost thirty and that I don't know is a soul-crushing, cringe-inducing thing. Yet, hidden within the folds of its kitschy, cliched garbs, I am forced to recognize that there lies hope.
I used to think that I need to write well. Now that I am a lot older and, by my own brazen proclamation, a lot wiser, I see that I have been naive. Therefore, I release myself from all real and notional 'targets' set by such friends as civil society and multinational corporations (rather similar animals, if you think about it), and certainly from any imagined expectations of my own.
I remind myself of that long forgotten principle of Occam's Razor, one I used to particularly like and for most part, live by. All those thoughts jostling for space in that poor, inadequate thing that is my brain must no longer be permitted to vanish into the dopey clouds of silence. Let me now simplify my assumptions. Silence and I have lived amicably together for a while now. From this day forth, I presume to know that I need to write, but more importantly, that I want to write. The want has a way of transcending the need - the human condition, no doubt. I will try to believe that there is unconditional meaning in this condition, that it is possible to live meaning into existence. Perhaps writing badly is my window to that world of multi-faceted meaning. It is a rather radical thought for me, and although it seems like a tell-tale sign of old age and intellectual ennui sneaking up on me, I hope it keeps.
No longer must thoughts remain in my head to atrophy there, or waltz around pell-mell only to orchestrate mayhem and leave. I must take control of what goes in there, and more importantly, what comes out.
How will control come to be? I don't know. I hate to say it - the fear of admitting that I'm almost thirty and that I don't know is a soul-crushing, cringe-inducing thing. Yet, hidden within the folds of its kitschy, cliched garbs, I am forced to recognize that there lies hope.
I used to think that I need to write well. Now that I am a lot older and, by my own brazen proclamation, a lot wiser, I see that I have been naive. Therefore, I release myself from all real and notional 'targets' set by such friends as civil society and multinational corporations (rather similar animals, if you think about it), and certainly from any imagined expectations of my own.
I remind myself of that long forgotten principle of Occam's Razor, one I used to particularly like and for most part, live by. All those thoughts jostling for space in that poor, inadequate thing that is my brain must no longer be permitted to vanish into the dopey clouds of silence. Let me now simplify my assumptions. Silence and I have lived amicably together for a while now. From this day forth, I presume to know that I need to write, but more importantly, that I want to write. The want has a way of transcending the need - the human condition, no doubt. I will try to believe that there is unconditional meaning in this condition, that it is possible to live meaning into existence. Perhaps writing badly is my window to that world of multi-faceted meaning. It is a rather radical thought for me, and although it seems like a tell-tale sign of old age and intellectual ennui sneaking up on me, I hope it keeps.
3 comments:
Write, you must. Yes.
-Yoda
Reminder.... this was posted two months ago :-)
:-D This is embarrassing, as always!
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