Whenever I come across something that’d be nice to write about, so I’m reminded how I already wrote about it. Maybe you can extrapolate about it, add a different lens. Though seeing as it already exists, more often than not I’m inclined to leave it as is.
It’s strange though: there’s an unlimited number of sentences waiting between us. Why is it hard to come up with some new ones?
One could argue that sentences come after the experience, not before. To hope that sentences usher the experience instead is our caustic swamp to get dissolved in.
I mean, you see this in the majority of writing that seems more than amusing enough: telling a story. Something that already happened. Travel logs, past memories, relationship meditations – leave it to the fictional authors. And yet even those fictional authors source a good bit of their plotlines from their living. In some sense, we’re just recording whatever was set in motion around us.
Thus it seems that there aren’t unlimited sentences between us. There’s only an essence of being, and however much that essence expanded within silence. Under this lens maybe one could find despair – to wonder what it means if you have nothing new. And under this lens one could find some relief: some awkward passings are unavoidable.
Still, one can wipe the blackboard clean and draw some stars if you want. The tension between free-will and fate is what makes things amusing after all. Maybe you take on the advanced definition: a group of agents and their actions. That we define one another’s will, in some sense. “I can’t help it when you act this way!”
Having nothing to say is dishonest, of course. There’s things I could talk about from real life instead of doing this firefly dance making lightfading banal reflections. Along with a catalogue of memories that I’m actively forgetting. It’s certainly dishonest: perhaps this could all contour into a fringe suntanned tapestry.
But as I’ve already written: it’s more fun to make today’s story, rather than recount stories past. And if there’s no more story, sentences ran dry – then I guess we’ll just have to wait awhile. Or until the next lifetime.