he saw orange, as the afternoon spilt itself onto the grass, the trees, enveloping the red brick and caressing the leaves it filtered through to touch the ground.
it's as if one day the words just stopped flowing, like a river taking another path, choosing another valley; so that every time he opens his mouth, as if to speak, all his sentences are silences, and his thoughts turn in on them selves, folded and unfolding. the truth is that there is nothing worse than being mute, unable to open your mouth, unable to form the words that want nothing more than to be said. which is what words do.
yet everytime he turns around, there is another silence. every time there is a pen, there is an empty page, as he realizes that it is not that the words have left him, it is that he has never had the words for this, he has never had the hands to envelope this, so while he may be inside it, he was never given the actual words to describe it.
there is nothing more cruel, for a writer.
*
except his eyes. they burn.
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his sentences are silences, are sentences are silences his silences are sentences, his are, sentences, silences.
ReplyDelete..and they'll find us lost, cowering in a moment, silent and illegible, mumbling nonsense to ourselves(i thank you god for the words that He gave me).
=)
ReplyDeleteAnd something else happens with that. The absolute uselessness of words becomes apparent. And you feel like a plaigarist, when you read what you wrote before. Because everytime you said it, you took it away from what it was. The irony, ofcourse, is that you know you will still say it. You will kill it, to allow the words to live-whenever they come.
ReplyDeleteA writer assasinates. And he burns the corpse to create fire.
Grotesque.
But the grotesque is also horrifyingly beautiful.
Thin lines. Thin. Between the apex and the abyss.