ad infinitum

Here I am writing something, mostly just for the sake of writing something. Because I haven’t written much of anything for a while. Or maybe because I was in the shower and the words just started coming out of me. They always come at such inopportune moments – the words, the ideas, the thoughts, the solutions even. This is no coincidence; it’s been scientifically proven, actually. (Though don't ask for a citation.) The mind at rest is free to let thoughts flow. Or maybe it’s because I’m sick right now. I’ve been in bed for most of the last thirty-six hours. My mind is strangely hollow and active at the same time. Or maybe it’s just because I love words so damn much. I’ve been reading so much lately. I hate to use the word voraciously, because it’s so typically used in this context. But I don’t have the desire or will right now to think of a better word, or worse yet, go to the thesaurus.

So I’ve been reading voraciously. I’ll go with that.

I’m currently nearing the end of a book by Haruki Murakami, an author so popular I'd normally refuse to read him. I’ve plowed through it pretty quickly. The story is great; it has kept me reading. I’ve been somewhat entranced with the characters and their stories. But at the same time, I’ve found myself feeling a bit of emptiness, or lack of love, as I read this book. The language is too simple, too straightforward. The story propels me, and the words bore me. I doubt I’ll read another book of his, just for this reason. More than I love stories, I love language. I read another book recently that made me literally want to eat it – to put the book in my mouth, chew it, swallow it. The language was so dense, so beautiful, so incredible, so, so, so, so much that my words can’t possibly do anything to describe it. The story was basic; I could have even done without it. I just wanted to read the words – to consume them. Let them enter my body, course through my veins, infect me. I didn’t care what they meant. What they meant to me was the same thing a beautiful piece of visual art does – structure, composition, emotion, whatever. The collage of words made a story, evoked an emotion, of their own. And that affected me more deeply than a compelling story with simple language. This is not to fault Murakami. Obviously, he’s a well loved writer. He admits his language is simple; it’s just not for me.

This started me thinking about design, which I only seem to think about abstractly these days. And I guess I’ve always been more fond of the abstract in everything I see and do. And so it goes with words. I’d sometimes rather not quite understand what they mean. And it leaves me thinking about my own words, my own language – what it means or doesn’t. And I’m stuck. Right now I’m stuck. “You’re a talented writer.” So what if I am. What does that mean? What have I ever done with it? What will I ever do with it? And I feel like I’m chasing the wrong dream sometimes, and that the universe is laughing at me. Mocking me. I feel like I should be – want to be – useful in this world. But where is my worth? What am I good for? And until I figure it out – if there’s even any figuring out to do – will I continue chasing my tail in circles? Will the universe continue to mock me? Do I need someone to kick me in the shins, shake me, punch me, wake me up from this dream that I’ll not dare call a dream?

Cause it sure as hell isn’t very dreamy.

Unless we are to consider that my dreams never are. I never remember them. They come to me only in fragments, vague feelings, foggy memories of a person, a place, a visceral sensation. They don’t have stories. I can’t recite them to you. They don’t make sense. In that case, sure, never mind, let’s go ahead and call this a dream. And as I think about my language and my writing and my so called talent – I think again, what is it good for? For putting here, on a blog that I both hope is read and not read? Aside from the one person who I know reads it, I assume there are others, but really I don’t know. And it seems contradictory that I would put these words here and simultaneously hope that no one reads them. But then some people who know me will laugh and say it’s totally appropriate, completely an apt representation of the self I simultaneously hide and project. And here I am, as I write these words, thinking it’s getting too personal, and that I’ll probably never put these words on this blog. And I’m wishing I could go back to the shower, where the words make sense. As the words, the language let’s call it, become real and concrete, they stop making sense. “Nothing makes sense.”

I want to be one of those people who writes sparingly. Cutting words. Fewer is better. I’d rather read something that doesn’t answer anything – something that only makes me wonder. I suppose it’s no accident that the way I write, the way I use my language, is not the way I like to read. I prefer to read those who write differently from me. Which I guess is not a problem, except that it leaves me wishing I were something or someone else. Which again, we could say is an apt metaphor for me. As these things usually are.

And this is all because I’m sick right now. Simultaneously antsy and lethargic. Foggy brain, elusive thoughts screaming to be freed from inside me. But “nothing makes sense.”

And what am I going to do with my life? I mean, what am I going to do? "You're a talented writer." So what if I am.