Among Want

It's been a few months since I last talked in this manner. This is a voice, after all, a particular inflexion of my vocal chords; a deliberate accent. I remember sitting on my childhood bed with my back against the wall on the other side of the world. It dawned on me that this was a way of voicing how I feel that's more confusing for me than other voices. My words glide into each other and there are too many sentences. It gets crowded. It dawned on me that I could be more deliberate and align my words in a way closer to how they seem to draw in my own thinking. Less prepositions and logical syntax. Less questions about whether how I really put things fit how they sat in my mind. They didn't. This is a way of communicating that's supposedly clearer for people; it is not so for me. My words are knotted and ideas and images are tethered by wisps and inchoations. In my mind, time does sit, and so the rhythm of keep-going that prose suggests is an altercation with the physics of language in my own conception, for my own purposes. I don't own them of course, but I am making a distinction. I do not understand things, it seems. I stand by them. They happen, and I am here.

A where-wolf in the thrashing bushwalks of the freely-forested dreamt-up world. It's probably true that by manipulating language, by making concepts, re-making concepts, shattering consciously the categories that language offers us, we come closer to being mechanics. Figuring things out. This is a bottle. This is a nose. This is a nose-bottle. A bottled nose. A something we figure out, we image. No it's not real. Yes, it is really. Reality is an art, not the other way around. What I have accepted as 'the way' or 'the real' is just a figuration that could be something else if it is figured elseway. 

What am I doing? Figuring. Fashioning. Making. Newing. None of it is 'a' thing, but 'any'thing instantiated. Doing so makes me. It puts in touch me with the wording of me. I could be me, but I am something else. The verb to be separates. Punctuation marks. Short sentences drive points home off the cliff.

I read back and a tendrilled worry inside me is felt. It slides on the edges. I don't make sense. What is the sense in writing something that does not make sense? It is a fashion of reality. It is as real as the real, but its story is unfamiliar. I bet it could become familiar if one wished to familiarise oneself with it. The syntax makes me feel guilty as if it should all be clear. Writing 'poetry' is easier for me, really, because there's less expectations of clarity, there. More anythings go, really, but even that isn't totally freeing. 

I write this for it to be seen. I write this so that you can see it. And that is the same thing as writing this so that I can see it. I put it out 'there' and that makes me feel validated. You don't have to say a word - I already know what I want and it is a trapdoor-kind of choice to keep it from myself (because I already have it, knowing it). I keep it there in brackets and build a frame around it that becomes a house. I live there, in want, waiting for an architect to knock down the pillars and the wooden panelling. No, really, I live there because I can make it appear like I do, and that's good enough an illusion for me to play with.

I write this because I am playing. I think I live like this because I am playing and I can't justify stopping. The little boy I mention in the past three years and whatnot of this blog and writing, he who is anxious, scared, is an instance, a possibility, a reality. He really likes to play, and he enjoyed playing victim. Now I know he was playing, and sometimes I do enjoy keeping that up, forgetting. I have to forget, to do it. This is probably the 'thing' I wanted to get by writing this, after the words. A point of okay, of saying I choose to forget. I choose not to remember. This is my going concern/conifer.

Imogen Heap's lyrics:
"So how do I do normal? 
The smile I fake, the permanent wave of
Cue cards and fix-it gears,
Can't you tell I'm not myself?
I'm a slow motion accident
lost in coffee rings and fingerprints.
I don't wanna feel anything, but I do,
and it all comes back to you."

whoever you are, you who are here. I feel you in this way