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June 16, 2017 - 183 words
I’m kind of sick of words. Do you ever feel that way? I felt that way tonight. But I still wrote. I wrote and wrote as if I were Marquis de Sade in prison, resorting to a bloodied finger when my pen ran out and my pencil wore down. I don’t even know what I had to write about.
I was just leaving something behind
something for someone to find.
A grandchild maybe.
My current journal is almost full. I can flip through its pages now, increasingly worn and fragile as I bend open the book to fill it with new weight, and see a record of the last seven months: scratches and scrawls of old anxieties and emerging neurosis, fears for the future with wistful gratitude sprinkled throughout. It’s almost glowing with the experiences and tragedies of a modern life in a city of mirrors. New characters replace the old ones, crossfading gracefully. Maybe some of them will return in the next book.
Just a book of words, a man pointing at the moon.
My brain wants to turn off the words.