Eternal Repetition
Stolen confessions of a literary thief.
Skipping here and there, impatient to get to the end, I read all the way through, remembering incidents that I had totally forgotten, recognising many episodes despite the distortions and dislocations.
“Perhaps a bit too aimless.”
Here I am writing how everything could be better, a little more polished. Polished like a tile with a rock into a mirror. The moment you are done, it has become too artificial, too remote, too clumsy. Too wordy, too concise. Fuck it, feed your head. Dangle between obscuring suppression and immediate absorption.
Actually, I’m complaining about a bad arrangement I made this morning that I can’t change now. What was I thinking? How can a fairly clever person make short-sighted decisions like that? Who is this dim-witted me acting like an inconsiderate prick? I keep failing to plan for hours ahead. Kill me now.
Let’s move on. My repetitions and leitmotifs resemble a mind jumping between planes of existence, suggesting holistic unity rather than discreet units. Some sections of text are adjacent to more than two others.
The book is nice. After drafting the previous sentence, I reread the whole book and found something else. But I decided to let the sentence stand: the important thing was not the book itself, but its afterglow.
I need to steal more. Writing is a waste of time. Picking is the new writing. Let’s chop up Nietzsche. My overkill elimination ratio: 93.2%! Approaching 100%. Is it God or Devil who makes you relive your life? Think. Think again. I got it the third time. Forever present, temporarily clouded. Life is but missing of hooks. Messing of books.
You cannot store up happiness. The past is useless. You can dwell on it but not in it. What good does it do anyone, knowing all the details? At least an author gets to hold on to things for just a little longer than the ordinary person.
There are humourless people in the world and you wonder what’s the world like for them. The conundrum of hopeless paraphernalia: you will never get any more out of life than you expect. Learning is discovering, uncovering what is there in us. Waking up to astonishments around. Absurdity in rapture. Rapture in absurdity. I’ve always liked my thoughts well-rounded. Just as a perfect criminal needs a perfect alibi.
Incomprehension is usually the result of obfuscation — the words refusing to slip into focus — whereas I am a writer of exceptional clarity, even when you are struggling to grasp the meaning of what is being said so clearly, so brightly. A ropewalker stepping into the void here and there. It’s all treacherously simple: brushing the daughter’s teeth, breaking eggs, a polychromatic voice. He likes the sound: eloquent, obnoxious. Jackhammer in the opera. Classical drills. Words gliding like gliders across the blank. Identicalish specks of dust examined by a mad scientist. The next moment: pretentious bullshit. A fleeting cliché turns into another: fuck you, abruptly.
Fuck me. That was no twist at all. Like I could sustain the tone for more than a few lines overstretched between the random pinnacles of whatever I’m going through. Loot: the vague sensation of something moving away from you as it exceeds its elastic capacity. I go shopping and my mind twists like the Earth revolving like a treadmill belt spinning like swollen language, which is why I rush to the keyboard like a postmodern Beethoven in a burst of inspiration and sweat.
