Is there an explanation for everything, even the illogical? Our lives are a series of decisions harboring consequences like a loaded gun in a game of Russian roulette. No matter, in the end someone else will make a decision which will in turn become a tsunami of choices which affect you. You can’t excuse whatever decision you’re left with, because…wait for it…you still have a choice to make either way. The argument comes undone. In the end the only thing anyone can honestly depict, is how they react to the consequences.
“You should write.”
I can’t help but glare at the owner of those last words. Tell me something I don’t know. Tell me something I haven’t told myself at least a half dozen times on any given day. The words reverberate along my ribcage like a zydeco washboard; Write the violence, the deafness, take your readers on a journey through a world of silence. Do you know how much money people make on feel good books? And why would I even want to write one. I scoff, because…
I never wanted to write, I didn’t choose this. My world is a tidal wave of illogical sequences. Life is easy to write into a sonnet. Fiction? Fiction is the bellows to the flame beneath an unreality which carries more truth than not. Fiction is the expose.
“This”, my hand waves in a wide arch to encompass everything, “is the sum of consequences.” A vessel in which I poured everything out chapter by chapter, one word after another, for no other reason but to hear myself. Somehow in the idyllic fuckery that became of wrong choices and consequences (my life), I learned to write my readers into the story, one synapse after another. No it wasn’t enough to merely evict my demons, I went ahead and unwittingly discovered a whole new world beneath the surface of my silence, and decided to take you along. Yes, you, the modest reader who found me wanting and said I wrote in such a way, you felt my misery, my pain, my sense of wonder, and every epitaph. Love was also sewn within the tapestry like a silver lining for life and second chances and all the emotional dogma that exist.
You’re the consequence. That’s the epiphany. Every decision you’ve ever made in your life led to one arbitrary consequence after another. You’re the sum of your choices.
“So if you don’t want to write about those things, what then?” What other choice is there, it’s not a matter of wanting, but everything to do with need. The need exist to write. Remember my analogy about the loaded gun in a game of Russian roulette? Damned if you do, damned if you don’t…
Ah, I’m so fucking loud in between these words. The untethered scream is my filet skin pulled back to exposed nerves revelation. The ambience is in the typing, the letting go. You can’t dictate what gets written, that choice remains mine. I’m unwieldy with the terms, those consequences will arrive in due time. Instead, let me take you into the bowels of visceral horror; I’m comfortable among the dreaded and fearful words. Who can't help but recognize the monsters in human guise. Familiarity creates a wide berth for exploration.
Two sides of a coin, heads poetic hope or tails the shades of darkness, whereas you may need to hold my hand or lose your way. We all have choices and must pay the tithe.
I never chose to write, but I do. The question remains…can I?
"I think we ought to read only the kind of books that wound and stab us. If the book we are reading doesn't wake us up with a blow on the head, what are we reading it for? ...we need the books that affect us like a disaster, that grieve us deeply, like the death of someone we loved more than ourselves, like being banished into forests far from everyone, like a suicide. A book must be the axe for the frozen sea inside us."- Franz Kafka in a letter to Oskar Pollak (27 January 1904)