Viewing through words pt.2

(contents of a creased yellow piece of paper)

"I`m searching for a word. A single, simple word. A quest for meaning and definition. Truth and quality inherent in the simple friendship of letters. What are they? What is it? Why does it consume my life and control priorities to the detriment of my humanity. Once I thought I knew that word, and thought I knew life and its function. My hand was once in the stream of humanities consciousness and found there many words to fill the pages of a hundred books. I was poet, a creator of images, connecting thought to the birth of ideas and I thought that was enjoyment. I thought I had control and freedom, limitations existed for other men. But i was broken and scattered to the wind by my insistence on and blind following to that fictional notion of literary art. Death in that field came slowly but surely and from my present vantage I could see that vast monster advancing through the ages, could see it eat up the best of us and leaving empty husks to receive the praises of those too ignorant to know the crap we had produced.

The books I had written sat heavily upon my muse, she grew so fat and unmoving that I saw only the past; a dull luster sat upon all. My world grew full of words, so that I no longer saw nature as images of the senses. Instead, great ponderous sentences seemed to spring forth at the merest sight of brilliance. A sunset became nothing but a article of description uttered by my character in their times of solitude. Children laughing and running, once an inspiration to my character, now lay composed solely of philosophic musings and a swirling maelstrom of adjectives. I could not see! The sole pursuit of writing had destroyed the whole world! Where could I see or taste or feel independent of my damn artistic expressions? No where and I grew greatly agitated, refusing even to put pen to paper in fear of seeing the truth expressed even there. I find myself on the verge of humanity now, gradually wearing down the addictive need to create. I must not create or even chance any personal interpretation, for in that pit of hell lies a circular damnation.

So I find myself dumb, idiotic and refusing to engage in rational and logical creative forces. I must not. To pare down the world again to simple sensation, what an achievement and it takes the destruction of my heartiest desire. I trapped and damned man am I! My only salvation lies in finding a single word that does not subsume its indicative object, but that is a pursuit of impossibility! Ah, who can possibly understand that?

Even the woman looking at me contains nothing but words: uncertain, searching, angry. These words hold nothing for me. Then away to a different world."