(April 14/08)
Once the story is begun the ending is surly to follow. No beginnings midways or in betweens, just an ending. I write to write, nothing else matters, nothing worth writing about. I have written so much that it all seems the same, one long contiguous endnote. But an endnote to what, to whom? Am I a diarist, a note taker, an endnote taker? Is this one long unending endnote, but to what, to whom, for what reason? My scholarly studies have snipped away the prepuce of reasonableness, castration at the hands of men in hooded cloaks and caps with tassels and frayed cords. This thing, this academic thing called philosophy (the first science), has set me at odds with everything, even myself. Had I stuck with my first choice (fine arts), surly there would be an end to all this, an endnote to the endnote. But as I didn’t, by choice, imagine that, I have run roughshod over life, leaving a trail of unreasonableness behind, the viscera of bad thinking and an unreasonable attachment to not getting it right, ever. This madness is maddening, more so, cursedly maddening. And for what, for whom and how come? Were I to have one uncluttered reasonable thought, the joy of simplicity and good timing. But as I haven’t, nor will I, I stick to my unreasonableness, a gout’s worth of blithering and bad manners. Time for bed, if there be such a time at all, ever.
Once the story is begun the ending is surly to follow. No beginnings midways or in betweens, just an ending. I write to write, nothing else matters, nothing worth writing about. I have written so much that it all seems the same, one long contiguous endnote. But an endnote to what, to whom? Am I a diarist, a note taker, an endnote taker? Is this one long unending endnote, but to what, to whom, for what reason? My scholarly studies have snipped away the prepuce of reasonableness, castration at the hands of men in hooded cloaks and caps with tassels and frayed cords. This thing, this academic thing called philosophy (the first science), has set me at odds with everything, even myself. Had I stuck with my first choice (fine arts), surly there would be an end to all this, an endnote to the endnote. But as I didn’t, by choice, imagine that, I have run roughshod over life, leaving a trail of unreasonableness behind, the viscera of bad thinking and an unreasonable attachment to not getting it right, ever. This madness is maddening, more so, cursedly maddening. And for what, for whom and how come? Were I to have one uncluttered reasonable thought, the joy of simplicity and good timing. But as I haven’t, nor will I, I stick to my unreasonableness, a gout’s worth of blithering and bad manners. Time for bed, if there be such a time at all, ever.
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