Oh my god. Definitive proof I’m no genius!
The tortured soul (to say nothing of the emo kid) will cash out his hurt and buy inspiration. I’ve got it all wrong. Whenever I’m sad or depressed or reeling with the random gut-punch, I’m aphasic. My mind is deadened by the emotional barrage, drawn up monosyllabic and trite. Apparently, the world’s best literature has been written by the most miserable, suffering people. How the hell did they manage that? Smack me around, and you can be sure I’ll shut up. I don’t really understand where the tortured inspiration comes from. I couldn’t even dream up the words, much less produce them. And then in my usual state, my life is this run-on sentence, only half-sensical and fragmented, pushing to get out. I sometimes apologize for my wordiness, but it’s how I remember. I get a phrase in my head, and the torture lies in the need to express it; the tension of nonresolution until it’s released with as simple an act as writing it down. I hoard words obsessively, because they’re my memory. The portions of sentences are often meaningful only to me, but they also mean far more than the sum of the words. They may seem scattered or prosaic, but they’re my offhand treasure. So what do you do with the things you can’t say? I have only a few of those, but they’re weighty. Someday I’d like to let them go. For once I’d like them to be nothing more than words, made up of letters, made up of bits. No implication, no obligation, no ellipsis trailing off forever. Just that. I’d like to tell you about last weekend and the rest, but it’s late! I’ll be back tomorrow, and I positively guarantee more coherence. Good night, dreamer. I love you. jenni