Yet another bit o' something from a couple of years ago, edited for your reading pleasure...
Part of the need to write comes from the finiteness of existence - words may not be immortal, but they may last longer than this too-fragile flesh. But what if I can't accurately communicate the ideas I want to express?
Putting together my various bits and pieces on my new computer, it felt really important that they not be lost (like the things lost when the previous computer was stolen). Before moving to Paris, I felt like I had made a kind of peace with death: if I die, well, I've lived a charmed life anyway. I've lived well, loved and been loved. And that's true. But when it comes to the loss of my little notes and poems, that Piscean "I'm-sure-I'm-a-genius-if-only-I-could-prove-it" part of me takes over. All these landscapes and ideas in my head - it seems such a waste that they should disappear when I go. Maybe it's just loneliness. And though I know that what goes on in my head is merely a game compared to what goes on outside, it is the game that is being played in this life.
Maybe all these little bits and pieces are my real work: little poems, fragments, ideas. They say what they must. Stories and novels are merely accepted forms in the culture, and in the publishing industry. They are the outside forms I bring into my world in the hope that I can make a living in the outside world by expressing my inner world.
It seems that communication is so difficult in this life that you almost can't allow yourself to worry about it. So if I try to relate my dreams and ideas, and people see something else than I wanted them to, I can't let it bother me. Still, it's sad. Why make the attempt? Well, because I'm obsessive and driven, and I'll do it even if it's the wrong thing. And also, somewhere between the expression and the reception, some third thing exists independantly - and in its independance it is beautiful.
