I am a word on a page

I’ve been putting off writing here and now it is such a relief to escape back into this script, although often this writing bears little relation to anything outward anyone else could see.

How to avoid melodrama? The pages prior to these don’t satisfy. I fail to tell the stories of my days, but I try at least, which is probably more important. Perhaps one day this secret scribble will find its place, but at this exact moment, university, past, present, people . . . it’s all nothing.

I only care about the future. I love life more each day I live it. And if even this means nothing and makes no sense, it doesn’t matter; the answer’s in the attempt. So I channel every ounce of my soul through this hand and pen because this is all I have and will ever have and all the future you-who-reads-this has to tell of me and what I was and how I felt. I have my ‘now’ and you—an older version of me, perhaps, or someone else entirely?—have your own ‘nows,’ and these words are all we have.

Language is metaphorical. History is just words, the only reality we have, a construct of reality. I try to escape the bookish perpetuation of old words, language as metaphor for ‘out there’, ‘in here’, ‘me’. ‘I’ am a word on a page. As soon as I learn that, I’ll be free of the futile attempts at capturing everything that regulates my being through language. I can be free of the book and the page and the word if I can only see it.

Words get me well. “They all talked at once, their voices insistent and contradictory and impatient, making of unreality a possibility, then a probability, then an incontrovertible fact, as people will when their desires become words.” William Faulkner, The Sound & The Fury. p.109.

I feel like a trip into town in pursuit of my ideals of company and wild sociability.