A siren song of a thing I must do, despite the fact that I wish I knew better; wish I wasn’t called like a dog to the bell after Paplov, licking his heels, begging for a different answer, begging to be shoved into a different type of straight jacket.
“A writer,” they said, and laughed and sent me down onto land that laughed too, but my laugh was bitter and salty, and I couldn’t stop. They had to pry the pen from my hand, take the paper and tell me it was the death of trees that I once yearned to sit under in a different century where such things were aspired to.
Like a bitten apple before it smelled like poison; before it became the symbol of learning, of the Fall for I fell before I even had a chance; fell onto my knees in supplication for something other than these letters that I must daily arrange, and when I do otherwise I know I am betraying my very nature; like stained fingers dipped in unused ink to mark what I am, “a writer,” they said.
I cannot be otherwise, “oh how I try,” and I do, and I tell others I am not what I was made to be because it is such a cursed thing; such a thing without choosing; such a powerful, meaningless thing that makes structures to stand in; structures of stories one on top of the other and I wonder how skyscrapers are made of this; how we too are forced to cower beneath these constructions, and when they say otherwise, I tell them to ask God, “ask God how he teaches us, how we believe in the unseen.”
“The stories,” they say, and I know I was anointed; know that somehow my shiny unborn being was chosen to arrange life for others, through painted pictures in black and white, through burning, through the evolving tablet we began with and return to again to ask it for answers; to tell us something other than what we are told; to plant my fingers, striking each square to create circles that turn in on themselves throughout time, throughout all knowing, again and again we return and are born again through language.
This is how we construct ourselves; this is how we know; this is how we reach to another across, constantly without stopping the silence, so deafening beyond all hope and again we end up there because that’s the only place to go.