Last Night

I got a job as a music reviewer, and last night when I was supposed to be reviewing an EP by Forest Swords (quite good, if you like ambient music), I wrote this instead:


I am never quite sure how to start a novel. I’ve tried, many times, but the words can only flow for so long before I realize I don’t have a plot. I get so lost in joy of the medium that I totally forget that there needs to be a meaning as well. Even now, in these self-aware meta ponderings, I have lost a sense of direction and meaning.

I want to create. Put forth something beautiful, something staggering. Something that will nudge a column that holds up your idea of self, and suddenly you’ll be unstable, ever so slightly. Not because it’s unnerving, or shocking, or disconcerting, because these days that’s the easy way out. No. I want to write something that will leave you lost simply because it is so beautiful the only way it can be experienced is through a loss of self, a death of what you know, and a rebirth of the way you view the world.

That is what I would like to do. But, while I am not at a loss for words, I am at a loss for what those words should be about. I have often heard it said that things are often heard to have been said, but I feel as though the idiom is a dying breed. These things we hear said, we’ve only read them; echoes of a decade that has moved into offices and cubicles. And us, this new generation, inheriting their figures of speech, their ideas on figure, their ideas on our ideas; often the power of a generation is spoken about, the potential, the ability to affect such change that the children us children give birth to will tell their children to be like us. We imagine ourselves to be models of the future: the superman. As did those before us, as will those after.

I’ve often heard it said that to the victor goes, not only the spoils, but also the history. But what of in the battle of self? You will inevitably win, and remember the war of becoming so very differently than it really was. And what of our rebellion against time? Nothing stops the hands of the clock, they massage their face in an endless cycle, and we are terrified voyeurs to it’s autoerotic leanings. Like children drinking rum, we’re all just toying with things we’re not old enough for. First substance, now ideas: We hold justice on such a lofty pedestal, but that’s all we seem to do. Hold it. Look at it. Sometimes we pick it up to see how it feels, but it usually just sits there.

Morality is the new adolescent. Everywhere, clustered, but entirely misunderstood.

I’ve decided into crafting adages. Writing is masturbation. Everything is masturbation.