Hello friends. Honestly there’s nothing behind these words today.
But maybe you could figure there’s something behind wanting to say nothing. That counterintuitively when there’s nothing left and no desire to write that’s the best time to try.
One can find it addicting – the whole crusade set up and execution with certain titles and maybe this one is coming along the same way, however unintended. You could suppose that’s what makes essays at least comfortable; whenever you’re feeling lost, just refer to the title.
Still, getting used to the whole narrative-to-push-at-the-very-forefront format is exhausting sometimes. Having something to prove.
Having something to prove is the very reason why it’s easier to rarely prove anything at all. Since others hold the same agenda often in conflict. If you wonder from a good bit of your conversations, so you may agree it all could very well be a bunch of proving matches. It could very well transform into such matches. It very well results in little much of anything.
The author’s world is a nice trade off. With the author’s world so it goes. With the real world one’ll likely retract statements and censor some too, knowing all too well there’s no picture perfect exchange and whatever exchange isn’t much of anything – the same as the diner regular dreaming of lotteries and assuring the waitress of his grande get-away scheme. She can only pour the coffee in response.
If the author’s a queer experience, there’s something detached and alien about the pseudonymous. Because as The Author you’ll still have proving matches. However your work comes up, however your reputation wars unfold. Persisted identity always needs upkeep you know.
Yet drinking enough from the pseudonymous poisoned cup one very well may wonder how anyone stomachs anything else.
There’s nothing to guard. There’s nothing to prove. If you want freedom, it’s in the pseudonymous pen, even if when you zoom out you are all too aware about probable insignificance.
Still, isn’t significance something to prove? Hoping to influence things, others – hope placed in ambiguous ends. Significance is arguably found in the small bands which come along. Let’s remove all statist inclinations: chicken scratchings on this digital wall still make a portrait, and perhaps through such portraits one may peer into portals of worlds waiting. Possible pigments for a brighter green complementing our river sunside. Orange doesn’t have to be the only way to set the day. Sometimes it’s all pink and purple, but we can hope for green sherbert too.
With enough pseudonymous poison so one discovers the bottom of the chalice inscribed: “You are welcomed here forever, and you’ll be.”
What are the downsides? Well, maybe some neurosis.
Who knows, maybe the roadway to no-thoughts is paved with intentionless thoughts after all. It’s not unlikely to cultivate a suspicion that, the more one writes, the further one’s neurosis digs in. Where the irony of writing is that, though you got a portal elsewhere you aren’t even there either. Just stuck in dark streams swaying between sign posts: one says Bar and another says Board with the Waves and wondering about your Phone and the Tomorrow Day. Each word a pebble of erosion toward a prefrontal reservoir above until you are the straitjacket drowning.
But when you have no intentions, incentives, maybe only then can you truly begin paving toward something zen. It’s an exercise or a test towards one contentedness and the extent of one’s inner landscape: if one can’t fill the pages with nonsense completely detached from self while not a bit perturbed…
Then there’s pressures still left to undo.