Leave writing alone long enough and it’ll forget you when you want it back.
And yet this ineptitude felt is ironically conducive toward raw thought. Which is what matters.
Sure, writing is a skill, yet what of skills? Look at the culinary world, and how much emphasis is given to the ingredient list. The source, the grade, the expiration, the combinations, the higher vision – cooking begins at the market, doesn’t it? No amount of slick knifework can make up a rotten roast. Pull your targets through your perfect evening.
So the same with writing. While I won’t deny the coyish playback of syntax meshed with cashmere wordsweaters, lash headers, it won’t matter. It won’t matter.
Furnish enough form and the function may lose its one meaning. Whittle it into a pretty shape only for it to snap in two. Tighten the corset until a rib or three cracked. To what end? Until the end is lost.
For it is not faerie figurine or a flesh mannequin itself that we need a devoted attention towards; it is the essence carried. Nothing else! Nothing! All that time spent polishing and yet the choice of wood, not a second thought? Absurd! Why cherry oak?
The beautiful is that which may nestle entire worlds in its appearance: to what fondness do you owe the portrait of innocence other than namely that, innocence invoked? Associate its innocence with enough stains and the cleanest symbol will lose everything, no matter how endearing. Such endearment will leave one reviled and all the more in despair; please give me back what once was!
Writing is useless unless you’ve your objectives in mind, delivering them steadfast and with vigor. Host your worlds!
So, with my loss of form, the function may be nurtured once more.