There is so much I want to write. What has been happening to me over this past month. The short story I have about a man and a peculiar visitor. My constipated reaction to Denali. My joy with Lily. The tribulations of my work, confounded by all these things. The war.
It is not the lack of words that stops me. It is the fear I have of what effect these words will have on my world. A common perception of me is one of Matt the hermit, the recluse who never leaves his house. Many close friends have noted my ability to "perform" while intoxicated, that it is a different Matt altogether from the one you initially meet, and again different from the one you love. It's a good thing there is only one world for all these Matts to live in, but mostly from our perspective.
If knowing me is knowing us, imagine what a house of mirrors I must navigate in search of myself. The things I want to say are often mad. If Emerson's hobgoblin has been exiled as much as I suspect, my mind is certainly as mad as it is great.
How would I write about this past month, where inside my mind vast tracts of me have been torturously ground out of existance? How can anyone describe something for which no memory exists? Something so terrible and unimaginable in scope defies description in added insult to it's manifest impossibility. Still, the change is in fact so simple and infuriatingly unnoticable that it simultaneously makes writing about it unprofitable, or worse, petty.
How to write the story of the man's strange visitor, when the man is myself and the visitor is still here? It is a story as heartwarming as can be, read aloud by Edgar Allen Poe, exhumed and animated. It is very likely you're reading the story right now.
What could I possibly write about the perpetual impossibility that is Denali that I haven't shrieked into page after laborious page a thousand times before? I'm sure I'll find something.
It seems almost a fantasy to have encountered Lily. She wonders why I don't write about her while at the same time rightfully fearing what I might write. Talking about her is easy, writing, impossible. So, nothing.
Work and the war are nearly the same type of meat, and that post will bleed its way from me when the bloat can no longer be contained.
So many words and so much story to tell, I am struck dumb.
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Posted by: awyzgx at April 15, 2010 08:03 AMwise and wiser still... especially in this case
Posted by: lily at September 1, 2005 01:08 AMI know you've heard, "If you don't understand my silence, you may not understand my words."
Posted by: Ira at August 26, 2005 12:37 PMShe's all ears. In the "she'd love to hear it" sense, not the Prince Charles sense.
Posted by: Matt at August 22, 2005 05:04 PMI want to meet Lily when I come up again. I'm sure I can tell her stories about your no one else has ;)
Posted by: Paul at August 22, 2005 02:33 PM