I am weary. I am writing.
I cannot tell the difference between what is the cause and what is the effect anymore. Was my weariness caused by my writing, by the constant pushing of the pen, the ink outlasting the soul, the pen outlasting the body? As I push the pen and turn the pages, I turn afraid as well. The words begin to swim because you know not that they were at first, forming the surface of a quarry pool, waiting for you to come in, to commit your all. Take off your clothes and dive in, stranger. Feel the pull. There is a Siren beneath those words.
or did I write because I am wearing down, my eyes unable to focus properly because it has turned dark and it seems to be getting worse as each day passes. Is it because I think those indelible ink marks, once commemorated to paper, will outlast my mind and body? They will continue to speak what I want to say long after I have gone home.
It is funny how I turn to books to use them as a mirror for my thoughts. Are my thoughts the perversions or inversions of what happens in these books I read? More importantly I have been asking these questions for as long as I can remember.
are my thoughts my own?
Or do they belong to my peers, to the books and rags I read, to the people I encounter?