Everything can be summed up in those four verbs, and it makes life feel subjective - like nothing anyone can do is worth dick. We just keep on keeping on, and the best of us happen to learn a thing or two - but communication? That's what keeps us living even after our lungs have collapsed and our hearts have stopped beating and our fists are retreating from the fights that we've fought and the disasters we've wrought and the lies we've bought ourselves into. We trade information and experiences, let our lives flow into each others' footsteps, retrace the paths we've so novicely maneuvered, and deftly control the trembles in our chins that give away our minds' inability to process our realities. Our selves are wholes that are smaller than the sum of their parts. Our present is a future tense achieved by our former selves - people we abandoned in order to become the people we are today. I know this. I'm almost certain I knew a variation of this fact back then.
***
I once watched a documentary about Charles Bukowski. Never had I realized that he spent so much time in front of the typewriter all day, just banging the shit out of it, making sure that some kind of beautiful music came from it. He said that he’d worry later if the piece was any good, if it made any sense. As I’m banging the shit out of my laptop, I have to keep my eyes closed in order to follow his method. Do not look, I tell myself. If I look at the screen I’ll want to change something that can be changed later, after this high of interest has piqued and there’s nothing left to say.
***
The need to get laid is just as valid a sentiment as any other, though some shmuck will probably say that it’s not a valid sentiment and that I shouldn’t say anything like that - especially because I’m a woman and god forbid that I want some guy’s cum all over me, inside of me, suffocating me with its thick, white stickiness. Licking the results of a bukake movie in my bedroom every night is not enough to ensure that my sexual appetite is appeased.
***
It is as if my love for the written word were that for a childhood beau whose arrival I have eagerly awaited with livid hope and breath long bated.
I file away all other priorities and prepare to spend quiet quality time, just we two, alone in a room, figuring out what has been lost and what has been gained during our time apart. I do not hesitate to feel out his body with thirsty hands clamoring to be soaked again in a puddle of our mixed perspiration. I crave no tangible evidence of our union - dreams of a potential future together are enough to satisfy my romantic urges.
Thus, I am swallowed whole by this permanent capacity to continue the act of Love. For making words and making love are the same, and I do not intend to lay down my pen.
***
Life invades the lungs of words whispered between the walls of one’s mind, causing each thought to resound down the echoey corridor of memory to one day splash in a pool of pure purpose and be activated by action.
***
George W. Bush is a man of limited ability put in a position of power. He attempts to decipher his own meager reality while unapologetically staking claim as “Leader of the Free World.” My egotism allows me to empathize.
***
The perfect distance between words and their readers is an amount only distinguishable by quantum physicists and creative geniuses - and only so in the realm populated by no one but their own subjective attitudes and hypothetical realities.
***
My otherwise sharp tongue imprisoned in a dull haze, I articulate my thoughts improperly in several silly turns of phrase.
