The frightening thing, is that when I revisit old notebooks and dusty abandoned computer files, I feel like I'm peeking into someone elses life. I was there a month ago typing out those lines, but as I read them again and prepare them for finished work, I have the feeling that I’m stealing. It looks alien to me, every letter posed like a challenge that only the myself of yesterday would dare spell out.
So little to re-write. The conclusions flow in effortlessly, and provide a dramatic uptake that I had forgone that month ago. I have the answers to the rhetoric that was posited thirty plus days ago.
I try to start everything with a quote, a line that ties together the philosophy of the piece with the same simplicity it takes to scream “help” in a fire. But sometimes it’s like a voice from another throat.
Maybe its a voice made raspy from smoke inhalation; but it gets harder to tell. What am I trying to say about the state of literature and the written word you say? I'm trying to convey the fleet footed nature of an idea left to sit. I'm attempting to get it through all of our heads that things dissapear when we sleep, so our cause is hopeless until we scratch out our plan on the calloused skin of the earth.
Ill probably forget all of this tommorow… Ill have only the few family snapshots on my wall to remind me of what I am doing here. The bills here have my name on them; that should be enough to form a solid identity before I step out the door and into the open wilderness of city life.
Regards,
Johny Manic
P.S. – Send help
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