whiskeyblanket
weird chicken lady
- Jan 23, 2025
- 69
I need to write. I don't want to write. I don't want to write. Why don't I want to write?
I've been writing as long as I can remember. Even when I could barely hold a pencil I wanted to write. I kept journals in kindergarten. Why can I no longer write?
I am jaded, it's true. Jaded into thinking that I've seen every tiny thing under the sun. There's no pattern of leaf I haven't already seen, nor pattern of gravitational pull toward earth, nor manner of landing, nor manner of earth itself. I have seen it all.
Of course, I have not at all seen it all, will never, could never truly see it all. There are colors in flowers and in sky to which I shall never bear witness. There are types of pain and types of joy which I shall never experience. There are tiny little pieces of life being born and being snubbed away that I shall never watch in the process of becoming. There is much, oh so very much, that I have never seen and likely never will see and yet, I am jaded.
I have seen it all, but I have not seen it all. Of course I have not seen it all. How many quadrillions of cells are there? How could anyone hope to see it all? I will never see it all. And then, no one will ever see it all because such a feat is simply not possible, with how many quadrillions of cells there must be.
I have not seen it all and never will see it all. I could not hope to see it all even if I dedicated every waking and sleeping moment, every fiber of my being, every strand of my DNA, so I guess what's the point? Why should I try to know everything when everything is not knowable? Why should I try to see everything when everything is not seeable? Why should I try to have every experience when there is always at least one more experience out of reach? Why should I try to gain every shred of wisdom when every shred of wisdom is constantly under review?
And then, if not the pursuit of everything, what under the sun could I possibly write about?
Some people write trite little stories about characters doing trite little things, but do they not know, or do they not care, that their pursuit is vanity and a chasing after nothing? Not even a chasing after wind. Perhaps, not a chasing at all. And if not a chasing at all, then why write to begin with?
Was there not a time when I, too, had fallen in love with my own characters, fascinated to see how they would overcome every obstacle and beat every odd? Was I, too, not inspired by their perseverance, their love and loyalty to one another, and their ingenuity in finding ways out of traps and snares? Did I not once draw inspiration from their resilience and, in writing their fates, learn lessons that strengthened my own resilience and empower me to choose bolder paths?
Indeed, but now I languish in front of a keyboard, a blank notebook before me upon the desk. It's not as though I want to write but cannot begin; I can always begin but do not want to. I hate writing. I hate writing. I hate nothing more than writing.
The only thing I hate more than writing is speaking, and yet I am forced to speak on a near constant basis, daylong, but for weekends, and then on the weekends, I want nothing more than to remain silent. Nothing I say is genuine or true, nor can it be. I should feel stifled, but I do not. Rather, there is a pen and a blank page and I have nothing to put upon it, though I have time and encouragement to do so. Even if I could, I would not speak truth to those who must hear me speak.
I remember feeling stifled. I remember feeling as though the pen and the blank page were the only means through which to tell the truth, to be honest, to become unburdened by the myriad necessary lies. At what point have those lies converged into total consensual numbness? And at which point has total consensual numbness consumed me entirely?
I used to have things to say. Sometimes, my words were trite and reductive; other times they bordered on cliché and sentimentality, but they were mine, all mine. They were my hands, my heart, my mirror. They were my beginning. They were editable into something better—I was editable into something better. Maybe not that much. Too far; much too far. But there was the idea of being editable into something better, that with each word I could become or unbecome someone new.
But somehow I have come to understand that words are just words, that bad people get away with things and that good people languish in low level misery for years on end, that innocent life loving children die of cancer and in car crashes and people who try and try and try still end up living in a van down by the river. What could I possibly gain from writing words of wisdom or reading words of wisdom or in editing words of folly that could save any one of us? I used to believe that if we all could just write and write and write and read others' writing and then write some more we could be saved.
And if I had found some other means of saving all of us instead, I'm quite sure I would have exchanged pen and paper in an instant, but alas, no such means has presented itself. More and more I must acknowledge the doom we all share, the curse I once believed was unique to me, and distract myself from any wonderings. Why do we all persist? Well, some of us must. To continue the species, to ensure the young are cared for and educated. To ensure wounds are mended and spirits are lifted. To ensure doubts are assuaged and distractions are provided for those deeper cuts that cannot quite be healed. To keep profits high for those who are accordingly accustomed, and to maintain some sort of a carrot dangling from the stick for all the rest. And if I sound political, please forgive me. I once believed that elections and protests could break us out of this, but too many cycles and protests have passed now that I would be foolish to maintain my beliefs.
And so, if not for change of perspective or politic or community or world, then why write? More than a thousand words in, there is still no reason. My persistence in this endeavor is absurd and illogical. I write because it is absurd. It is absurd, it is absurd. I set my alarm because it is absurd. I shower and dress myself because it is absurd. I educate children BECAUSE IT IS ABSURD. I draw breath and exhale and draw breath and exhale once more BECAUSE IT IS ABSURD.
If there was a point to this, I would say so. I would be quite plain about it. Were there better ways to spend an hour? Were there more productive things I could have done? Am I complaining too much? Yes, of course. The answer to all of those questions is yes. But either way, one day my flesh will become the soil, and my words, whatever they are, will evaporate.
We must all forget and be forgotten.
I've been writing as long as I can remember. Even when I could barely hold a pencil I wanted to write. I kept journals in kindergarten. Why can I no longer write?
I am jaded, it's true. Jaded into thinking that I've seen every tiny thing under the sun. There's no pattern of leaf I haven't already seen, nor pattern of gravitational pull toward earth, nor manner of landing, nor manner of earth itself. I have seen it all.
Of course, I have not at all seen it all, will never, could never truly see it all. There are colors in flowers and in sky to which I shall never bear witness. There are types of pain and types of joy which I shall never experience. There are tiny little pieces of life being born and being snubbed away that I shall never watch in the process of becoming. There is much, oh so very much, that I have never seen and likely never will see and yet, I am jaded.
I have seen it all, but I have not seen it all. Of course I have not seen it all. How many quadrillions of cells are there? How could anyone hope to see it all? I will never see it all. And then, no one will ever see it all because such a feat is simply not possible, with how many quadrillions of cells there must be.
I have not seen it all and never will see it all. I could not hope to see it all even if I dedicated every waking and sleeping moment, every fiber of my being, every strand of my DNA, so I guess what's the point? Why should I try to know everything when everything is not knowable? Why should I try to see everything when everything is not seeable? Why should I try to have every experience when there is always at least one more experience out of reach? Why should I try to gain every shred of wisdom when every shred of wisdom is constantly under review?
And then, if not the pursuit of everything, what under the sun could I possibly write about?
Some people write trite little stories about characters doing trite little things, but do they not know, or do they not care, that their pursuit is vanity and a chasing after nothing? Not even a chasing after wind. Perhaps, not a chasing at all. And if not a chasing at all, then why write to begin with?
Was there not a time when I, too, had fallen in love with my own characters, fascinated to see how they would overcome every obstacle and beat every odd? Was I, too, not inspired by their perseverance, their love and loyalty to one another, and their ingenuity in finding ways out of traps and snares? Did I not once draw inspiration from their resilience and, in writing their fates, learn lessons that strengthened my own resilience and empower me to choose bolder paths?
Indeed, but now I languish in front of a keyboard, a blank notebook before me upon the desk. It's not as though I want to write but cannot begin; I can always begin but do not want to. I hate writing. I hate writing. I hate nothing more than writing.
The only thing I hate more than writing is speaking, and yet I am forced to speak on a near constant basis, daylong, but for weekends, and then on the weekends, I want nothing more than to remain silent. Nothing I say is genuine or true, nor can it be. I should feel stifled, but I do not. Rather, there is a pen and a blank page and I have nothing to put upon it, though I have time and encouragement to do so. Even if I could, I would not speak truth to those who must hear me speak.
I remember feeling stifled. I remember feeling as though the pen and the blank page were the only means through which to tell the truth, to be honest, to become unburdened by the myriad necessary lies. At what point have those lies converged into total consensual numbness? And at which point has total consensual numbness consumed me entirely?
I used to have things to say. Sometimes, my words were trite and reductive; other times they bordered on cliché and sentimentality, but they were mine, all mine. They were my hands, my heart, my mirror. They were my beginning. They were editable into something better—I was editable into something better. Maybe not that much. Too far; much too far. But there was the idea of being editable into something better, that with each word I could become or unbecome someone new.
But somehow I have come to understand that words are just words, that bad people get away with things and that good people languish in low level misery for years on end, that innocent life loving children die of cancer and in car crashes and people who try and try and try still end up living in a van down by the river. What could I possibly gain from writing words of wisdom or reading words of wisdom or in editing words of folly that could save any one of us? I used to believe that if we all could just write and write and write and read others' writing and then write some more we could be saved.
And if I had found some other means of saving all of us instead, I'm quite sure I would have exchanged pen and paper in an instant, but alas, no such means has presented itself. More and more I must acknowledge the doom we all share, the curse I once believed was unique to me, and distract myself from any wonderings. Why do we all persist? Well, some of us must. To continue the species, to ensure the young are cared for and educated. To ensure wounds are mended and spirits are lifted. To ensure doubts are assuaged and distractions are provided for those deeper cuts that cannot quite be healed. To keep profits high for those who are accordingly accustomed, and to maintain some sort of a carrot dangling from the stick for all the rest. And if I sound political, please forgive me. I once believed that elections and protests could break us out of this, but too many cycles and protests have passed now that I would be foolish to maintain my beliefs.
And so, if not for change of perspective or politic or community or world, then why write? More than a thousand words in, there is still no reason. My persistence in this endeavor is absurd and illogical. I write because it is absurd. It is absurd, it is absurd. I set my alarm because it is absurd. I shower and dress myself because it is absurd. I educate children BECAUSE IT IS ABSURD. I draw breath and exhale and draw breath and exhale once more BECAUSE IT IS ABSURD.
If there was a point to this, I would say so. I would be quite plain about it. Were there better ways to spend an hour? Were there more productive things I could have done? Am I complaining too much? Yes, of course. The answer to all of those questions is yes. But either way, one day my flesh will become the soil, and my words, whatever they are, will evaporate.
We must all forget and be forgotten.
