I figured the other day that I write sometimes to disown my own experiences.
Have you ever felt that? To masquerade a real life event, override the fallacy of such an occasion in your perfectly petty…mediocre life.
Though a small part of me is madly in love with such a concept; aggravating irresponsibility with no sense of true character. Sometimes I write something nonsensical, thoroughly too radical to test you, my readers – or to test me. I read back on a multitude of my old writings when I was 16 and feel relieved, as well as strangely nostalgic in a condescending sisterly way. I scoff and think in the same breath that one day I will look back on the current documents of my life and think the same.
Maybe I won’t.
What if we were to imagine a life prescribed by pure poetry. Of free verse rhythm. I like those better. As if the same author has and never was a part of us. A detached artist with the same name and face, you then wonder what were they thinking during this particular verse, this humorously displaced word. Less is more after all.
Perhaps that is why I have grown to be so fond of writing. You will never understand what you were trying to say, what message, truly was it ever that important to convey – wrap it up in one pretty calligraphic bouquet and send it off to sail in this cyber world. May I say this tenderly then?
I could tell you in all the forms of young ardent love – or promiscuous blooming sexuality – that I quietly disown my curious illusion of this man, fourteen years my senior.
But it isn’t so wrong.
I write sometimes to recall a time I have never known, but miss dearly. I write to offer up a small trite contribution in such an overgrown society. I write to sort out my thoughts, between the books I have read and the questionable era dramas that I have watched, such as The Dangerous Method this morning. I wonder if Sigmund Freud was ever correct in his arousing theory. Or rather in complete contrast, are we truly humiliating creatures in love; would it be so terrible that I would be alright with an adulterated formidable lust, spun most realistically by the fearful pride of being alone. No, lonely.
Or have I simply dug myself in a yarn too complicated to explain. Not in words to say the least. Perhaps truly, we wish to be mysterious to the next fellow who may pick up a piece of our writing, and that would be enough. It would be satisfying just to make them wonder briefly “what had they meant by this”, and then casually pass on by. It’s just a fictional story after all.