TLDR
IT’S HARD AND I’M TERRIBLE AT IT.
Prose is a skill that I never bothered to master or train in. It’s a tool that I wield haphazardly and with ignorance. I Never like what I write. I always feel like I’m just regurgitating words onto a page or screen. A straight up mishmash of thoughts, ideas, and voices. I struggle to make sense of them. Put them in order and make them clearer, but it never turns out way. My message, which was clear in my mind, turns into a bog. Muddy, dirty and always disgusting. I am never happy with the outcome.
Add on to that, I have the tendency to repeat words or phrases while typing. I will often write the same word or sentence or word or sentence, which I almost never catch. A stutter. Which I find amusing because, how can you stutter while writing? It makes no sense :l Still causes me to stress. I’m a miner working a stream, I sift through the refuse, over and over again in a futile attempt to make something that resembles the language that we know as English.
Modern Day Miners in Madagascar
Source:
http://www.thenaturalsapphirecompany.com/t-education_sapphire_mining/
And when I’m done. When I am forced to look upon the toils of my trouble. I find an abomination brought onto this plane of existence by my hand. I can only look upon them with hate and rage. For these words are my words borne from within me. They are the sum of skill and self. My words only remind me of my own mediocrity and the disdain I have for myself.
I take the only sane course. I delete what I write, or better yet. Let the idea die in my head. That is totally fine by me.
Yet…
I’m haunted. These abortion of ideas sit in my head and festering and growing. Until they reach out and choke me to death. They scream
“Tino! You sonofabitch! What are you doing! Why have you abandoned us!?”
I try to escape and they just keep dragging me down and suffocating me.
“WHERE’S MY MONEY BITCH!”
-Marley’s ghost talking to Scrooge
Source:
http://www.victorianweb.org/art/illustration/barnard/xmas/4.html
I wonder why that’s the case…
Perhaps it’s not my ideas, but as George Orwell put it “SHEER EGOISM”, getting in the way.
George Orwell at his desk. Source: http://orwelldiaries.wordpress.com/biography/
Either way, it sucks. Thus, like Sisyphus, I continue the ever painful process of writing in hopes that I atone for crimes which I will never be absolved of.
“REMEMBER THE MILK NEXT TIME DUMB-ASS”
-Sisyphus being nagged before work.
Source:http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Nekyia_Staatliche_Antikensammlungen_1494_n2.jpg
Yet…
Now, sitting here, typing, getting this post ready to publish about nothing. As my muscles strain at the very peak of the boulder’s climb. A boulder that I have been pushing agonizingly slow this whole time. My mind gets ready for the blow back that is the realization that I must do it all over again. In this one moment. I notice a tiny pebble. smaller than a fingernails width. It falls off, as the boulder is pulled down again. I begin to walk down head held high at least with some weight and gravitas.
Anyway here’s a poem:
Rotting
I lay down and stare at nothing
A bellow pumps smoke out
Puff puff like a wooden stove
As the smoke closes my eyes
My third eye opens
Projecting the past
Punching the present
And foreseeing the future
Seeing the Alpha and the Omega
Crossed
My third eye begins
Staring at electricity
Switching levers on and off
Turning into numbers
Zeros and ones
Turning into images
Images from bytes
Staring at images
Images being pumped full of life
At 60 Kilohearst a second
There my wretched creation
Cacophony of life and limbs
My abomination
Walks a few steps
And dies
And the wind continues to blow
I am no Frankenstein
But still binded
still forlorned
Still condemned nonetheless
To be forever haunted with endless repense
Whrandom Writings 
