Saturday, 5 June 2010

What if the sounds were more than just sounds. I’m trying to think of ways that this could be but I but I be what I can’t and I can’t and I’m obsessing with the small words too much. When i concentrate on my typing and that typing becomes looking at words and not thinking then the words the words then become the words and all the words ever become is the words “the words. Do you understand what I’m trying to say? Believe my I’m trying not to repeat myself but sometimes it’s difficult because all I can hear is the clicking of the keys and the popping of messages being sent from electronic winds across electronic waters and into my electronic brain.

Have I uploaded myself into some sort of other world? Have I fully let go of my internal, but not internal but it seemed like internal at the time, but eternal. And am I eternal? And are you eternal and will you still be there when I’m old or will you at least still be in my mind when I’m old.

I hope you will and I think about you all of so much of the time, but the other times I’m thinking about things that are right in front of me like the words on the words on the words on this page.

Please just and can’t and I please and can’t and I just and and and I just and can’t which witch can’t and I just and the words just don’t make sense when they’re about nothing. And I can spend all the time and effort and energy in the world on making sure that I don’t have to make sense but I just don’t feel it when it happens like that.

This is the problem with letting go of meaning. If I deny it I feel less. The insanity of the mind is not as beautiful and emotive as I want it to be. And is this my self-referential moment of clarity? And was that “self referential” too early and did my mind jump to it too soon?

And is too early and then too soon too redundant to be written on an electronic page? And is the clicking and typing of my mind drowning out the clicking and typing of my computer yet, or is it still the other way around?

I’m not as afraid as I once was of asking questions but I feel like you should be afraid of me asking questions. I’ve given up on grammar and meaning but I desperately want to be a good writer, and I want you to like this and I want you to love me for it.

Someone very wise which might have been you once told me that when I read and I write I have a beautiful light inside me. That I become a different person, and when someone wise who might’ve been you said that to me I almost cried because it was the one thing I wanted to hear.

And I stopped there for a moment and thought about the fact that I was writing. And when you are reading this or perhaps hearing it are you hearing it from me? Are you reading it from me or are you reading the paper? Are you seeing the letters or are you seeing the letters I wrote?

When does it come back to the mind? Does it? I question myself and a lot of the time the sentences in my head make no sense and the senses in my head cannot be formed in sentences.

Please help me, or please read this and then tell me that I don’t need help.

And when you do that, can you let me know? I’m no good at guessing those things for myself.

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