Sunday, August 25, 2019
Let Them Loiter on The Screen Awhile
A chasm has yawned between myself and my writing. I find it difficult to write as I used; it seems an idle pastime of my recent slightly less-old days. My conceit that no one would ever read my words, as if that matters, seems, irrationally, to matter. No one will read my books, it seems. I have no head for self-promotions. The uncounted keyboards of the world, matched with minds yearning to express that inner-world of subjective thought has flooded the Internet with garbage words, these included. These words, spewing forth from my brain like an overflowing sewer, typed off-hand on some Sunday morning, unsolicited by an uninterested world, flow nonetheless. Not edited, no reverse, just typing forth rubbish into the Internet. Howling into the void, an aging man types on the Chromebook of his dead father. Yet here I sit, starting another sentence that might lead anywhere, as this stream-of-consciousness thing, this aging brain attempting to convey its subjective existence, unable to wrestle down its own thoughts, cannot fathom that there is no reason to continue. The sun shines on half the backyard, shade and bright green grass share a plot of land behind the house I pay the bank to let me use. There is a great tree back there, which for a long time I mistook for a Honey Locust, and maybe it is some species of that line, but it is large, and it is there every day, immobile, but more importantly, unthinking, unworried about the purpose of life or the cost of the mortgage. It will be there, if left unmolested, for years to come, yet I will, restless and malcontent, move about in various circles, getting, spending, worrying and finding distraction, all the while approaching a certain and immobile grave. Then I will be as content as the tree in my backyard, immobile, unthinking, unworried about "the purpose of life or the cost of the mortgage." So. A chasm has yawned between myself and my writing. But maybe not. Because here is a cluster of words, more stuffing for the great Internet, read yet unread, loitering on a screen.