Sometimes one writes simply to write. Sometimes to remember. But the stringing of nouns and verbs only manifests into recollections and memories.
You see, I’m trying to write a story… with a shitload of adjectives. A novel in which my life is not composed of uniformly indented paragraphs—but a concrete, permanent form of the abstract dynamics of an ever-morphing vitality in which I am the only acceptable (pro)noun—that I can not just read, but feel, when parabolic (hah) human development hits degeneracy. I write erroneously—but who cares, it’s my narrative. Not every sentence can be perfect, not every character is developed (or even minutely important to the development of plot), dialogue is not always comprehensible… And not every chapter has a conclusion—but that’s what distinguishes a plain jane journal to a story.
Dear reader we may be on the same page, but interpreting different connotations.
But even if the diction isn’t quite perfect, we can simply proofread, cross-out the “errors,” flip to the next page and compose a symphony of mellifluous adjectives, supported by a cacophonous bass line… or whatever.
I guess all I’m trying to convey is I don’t want to live my life like a schedule or bland journal entries… I may not be able to live a fairy tale, but I’m scripting a happy ending—which can only be attained through adversary, conflict, climaxes, resolutions and the complimentary emotional souvenirs…
So I’m sorry if these pages are dog-eared or smeared with tears for I re
read relive with satisfaction and pen with emotion.
(Cry baby? Tears are perhaps the most potent expression of inarticulacy… but a simple fuck you works too.)