That's what he types in his notepad and moves on pretty quickly. He hasn't got a clue how its done or what he is going to write about.
One thing he knows though is that he wants to write something that will make sense to him and that he enjoys reading it before it reaches the hands and the eyes of readers in the wider world.
“How does one accepts the fate of a sublime being, just what the humans are at this stage, and then pretend that everything is all fine and that the end is near?”
How is that possible? He ponders.
Then he reads and rereads the line once more.
To no avail. Nothing feels right. Nothing feels that has some kind of excellence.
He then interrupts his thoughts because he wants to hear what is the right thing to say or write.
He then interrupts his thoughts because he wants to hear what is the right thing to say or write.
“What does it mean to be mean!?” He jots the lines down.
Doesn't like it much.
“Then he scribbles something that he has never scribbled before: How does one accepts a well justified slap on one's face!? And why should he?” He laughs.
He is slightly confused in what he means by that and that the idea of wrapping up thoughts half-baked just because they sound good but carry no meaning, is dangerous.
He continues scribbling away.
He jots down ideas and titles that do not make any sense to him at all. He then draws a circle with a thick compass but he doesn't know why he does that.
Can someone write the story of it all?
“How can you write a story that encapsulates everything since creation until the end of this paradise.” He looks himself in the mirror that is situated right in front of him. He writes from his wife’s make-up desk.
“How do you write anything that's meaningful to others but that doesn't make any sense to the others. How do I do that?”
Soon afterwards he continues to jot down ideas and title scribbles for which he is not aware that he is writing them in a niche, tiny notebook, and that anything he writes there
gets recorded and folded into a permanent memory writing memorial.
He is adamant that he is heading toward a good trajectory.
What kind of trajectory though? Is he in an elapsed time of the endangered species when no one else matters more to your own world, or is it an existential state of mind,
where you will get refused to bow down to the era of chaos and embrace peace of inner ghosts.
He feels like he has to give up. But he doesn't give up.
He feels like getting on with it, but he doesn't move on.
He feels like he has no purpose and that he needs to ostracise the feeling of mute in his brain.
How does he do that!? He is scared of his own falling, of his own demolition mentality, the sense that his ending should be the ending of everything else. But, that is not true and he knows that.
He then works on his “encapsulation theory”
The theory goes as following: “You think of everything else and then you ostracise in your mind first, you don't write any notes down, you just cramp up as much as you can and then you spit it out in anger. You then applause yourself in front of the mirror and say well done master”
You become patient because that is the only thing that you have going. But, then again, you would want to do more encapsulation and you will try anything to just let your mind ponder things. He mutters to himself.
Anchoring becomes an issue. The mental side of things.
You know, you are predetermined to excel in a particular story, but nothing works at that moment for that day.
You become frustrated and then you tell yourself not to give up. You find an excuse to make a cuppa, then go out, read a newspaper as if you are interested on an issue, browse phone and look for stories. He tells himself. He writes. He scribbles away.
That do not interest you but you are interested in them. Just at the moment when you want to talk to somebody, you discover that everybody is at work, and everybody is busy.
You then extend your walk on the shops.
You have absolutely no sense of your minutiae direction.
You don't want to go back home because you are scared that more other work awaits you.
You know that you have to send those emails and that you have to ring people to ask them how they are doing.
You dread that. Not because you don't care, but because you are drenched in self-propulsion-of-the-highest-to-tell-everybody-to-fuck-off
You walk out of the shop and realise that it is about time to walk back, or walk into something else, like a new shop and a new small adventure.
He does just that. He walks out, feels that the moment is well past his peak and then becomes a different person. The person that he has never known before.
There is a story awaiting him at home. A story that he doesn't know how he is going to craft but in his mind he knows it, he can read it, he can assume that he knows, he has built a world but not given its name yet.
First thing that comes to mind is the title: Fishing is smoked!
He is sure what it means to develop the narrative on that story, but how is he going to start he doesn't know that.
He scribbles a couple of lines that are uniformly incoherent. “There is no articulation. He scribbles some more. He finishes the paragraph and re-reads it for the record. Just to see what he actually means by the title! Is the title the right one or is the title just something that you dedicate it to the story because the story itself is not definitive. Doesn't give you an idea. Because the story is supposed to leave it as it is.” He scribbles more.
“The story is supposed to leave anybody unimpressed but with a volatile inner. How!” He asks himself.
Scratches his head and then tantrums boiling in his head.
He feels he can just kill any word or any sentence just now.
His veins are inflated and he can see them in his arms. His lower calves of his legs are swollen but his head is red and his eyes bloodshot. “I am the only man on planet earth who can restrain himself for longest.”
“I can do this and be thankful that my arteries haven't blown out of proportion and that I do not get a stroke.”
I can do this. He doesn't stop saying i can do this, I can do this and then stops and tells himself that he actually can't do it for longer because he senses that there is danger, a danger that redness can be easily turned into a liquid form that drenches one's own thick blood and then death.
I can do this until I piss myself. Then he scribbles on some more words. By this time because of so many tries on his restrain exercise, he forgets what he writes.
Restraining continues, redness starts to become more purple, his arms grow out of control but skin takes a different colour, reddish and black stripes with some white lines just on top of veins.
His head is very red even his hair becomes smaller and reduces in quantity. Full thick hair becomes a liability on an inflated body just because the owner for that body decided to inflate himself and prove a point.
He gives up. In the end, he does!
The sense of inner insecurity of executing words in letter, got the better of him.
He instils more inner pain in himself.
He thinks the worst about himself, he is adamant that he is shit and that he doesn't have what it takes to be a writer.
He knows he is not good but he is aware that he can be good but he hasn't the stamina to regulate that.
He is lost.
But, a small, unimportant thought comes in his head and he quips two words:
"The sensations of an attempted title and the failure to please the world"
Just so you are aware and just so the reader can relate to his story, he still continues to write.
The title has become his life's aim, a lifelong project. A never ending agony!
***
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