Yet there is something that I find solace in science that writing has not given to me. There is a method that is tried and true and if there were any errors to it, it would have been corrected to make sure that you can be as close to 95% correct in your assumptions. I love that there are formulas that calculate the most tiny of factors that can have the greatest effect to what you are attempting to calculate. I love most of all that if you are earnestly pursuing your practice with honesty, you'd want people to correct your mistakes, prove your hypothesis wrong, and to double check your math to make sure you didn't round up too soon or that you have shaved a great amount of precision off of your work for the assumption of simplicity. I even love the fact that people chase down the math for any patterns that may give people an idea to make life a bit better than before.
What can be explained is and what can not be is hunted down by a world wide community that is hunting down the same clues with different ideas hoping for that one error or observation that will lead to the next breakthrough understanding on why and how. It still makes me laugh that my degree is in Exercise Science and yes, some may call me a glorified coach, I see myself as someone who can take account on a biochemical, genetic and microbial level why you should run, yes it's fucking hard and no one really likes it, but that difficulty does wonders for your cardiovascular health even though you are not good at it and do resemble a drunk llama spitting every fourth step. It makes me laugh because in an odd moment of realization I discovered I don't need to wait for a return of graduate school to pursue more chemistry and micro to call myself a scientist, but that my degree alone does that.
Like, wow......childhood goal realized and attained. Neat.
Still going back one day.
Yet this is probably why I can not understand writing in any sense. It isn't a tried true method of getting something on the screen that doesn't make me feel a failure of humanity. In fact, I've written so many things that I realize what I want to write can't be reached at times. It's not like I have a map and compass with a decent sense of direction to get me where I wanted to, but more of a guy tied to a kite who might have believe this to be a great idea only to end up hoping he lands somewhere soft. Writing is pure chaos for me and has always been my first love. As much as I see scientists in their lab coats and black rubber gloves engaging in explosions, lightning and the taboo.....oh wait....that's movie scientist...always trying to blaspheme GOD and ending up fucking up the world with a moral of "if you only stayed stupid we'd be ok" always delivered.....
FOCUS
Writers have this romantic idea and view of ripping something so close the ether and soul from within in order to proclaim of our humanity and worth the empty heavens. Keats, Shelly, Byron, and sure.....even Wordsworth bring up dusty libraries, roaring fires, and writing to candlelight. Writers such as Poe, Lovecraft, and even King shows us how our human flaws can be used to grow terror and fear in order to remind us that we are only here for a moment. That our time has followed greater moments and will be shadowed afterwards by great ones, trapping us into a blink of a memory that will only catch the attention of those who can not remember and will end up not caring enough to bring themselves to the effort of following it up.
So as much as I crave the Enthalpy of science, bringing into order for a few microseconds of time an image that blurs past us daily, I crave the Entropy of ripping one's self apart for the amusement of another. And yet, it's more. It's that space that lives between boredom and the inspiration to attempt some sort of insane amusement that would only lead to a great story one day. Even now I am filled with so much to say once more and that the moments that do me in the worst is not writer's block that nulls me to nothingness, but the explosion of events and life that speeds by without a moment of reflection. Those moments when you mind feels so impacted that it risks to explode and sacrificing on to death every last thought that had will not be birth to the world. I know my dying moments on this world, if not numbed by opiates or blanked by internal madness of illness will be filled with the lamentation of not my time coming to end, but of the ideas I haven't expressed, even if they dwell within the mundane.
I can not control it. I do not choose when it speaks or at times what it says. I only ingest what I am able to take in or at times are forced to ingest moments that lead to nightmares from denial. I then stare at the screen and make my numerous attempts that will either lull me to calm or spur an onslaught of rambling words with no sort of order, often times saying everything but what needs to be said. Proofreading at times cause me question if the previous ME is just insane or just stupid. Other times I realize that as much as I was taken hostage by that point, that it was too overwhelming and I could not erupt what needs to be said. Often time rereading it would cause me to break from reality and understand I can not say what I need to say the most simply because I can not find the words to encompass it all and what I needed the most of someone to hold on to me and tell me it will be all right. When I am able to say something so bluntly it is due to many of these moments reread or a comatose apathy that numbs me whole and allows me to utter horrors without screaming until my throat becomes bloody. These are the times when I willing go into circles or tell others that I can not endure the memory once again since I lose so much reliving it.
There are other moments where I take on the Sisyphean burden of returning to a piece I've had dove in without checking for depth and wrestled it down to by any means available to me, each time disgusted with my attempts, enraged at my own ineptitude. These moments of hatred cause me to inflict self-hatred through harsh liquor and self-depreciating actions that will only add more fuel to a future fire. I return to the scene of struggle and wonder what is missing and how I can hold on to it once more in order to put my will upon it and not it upon me. I'm learning to walk away from pieces with a much impressive failure rate since they only lead to frustrated angst and sluggish mornings. They usually wane upon their deathbeds without mercy and conscious only to arrive at the disappointing end of being deleted and called my personal ruin. And yet there are those times where I commit the unimaginable and keep such a dead piece hidden and out from public eyes to remind me that I am not able to bare all, even when screaming that I am more than willing and would gladly make it my last effort at anything. I witness this necrosis and in some horrid and blasphemous say make mental notes and leave it once more entombed within intangible walls, never to see light of day.
My writing has always been there when I had no voice. Either memorized in order to keep the prying from finding another assault to their order or smuggled, hidden and protected as some would their secret shames. In everyday life, I do not resemble marble in which my emotions are protected and hidden from those who can find fault with them. With the most spectacular of ability to not be able to speak a lie, I had to learn to either remain silent. select my words with diligent care, or to blatantly spew what is in mind without fear of what may come. It's rough enough fighting a stutter. I've learned quickly to lean towards the strange and odd in order to be able to speak somewhat until social anxiety or once again, apathy (you will see this material again and again) allows me to say what I can and to shrug off when mumbled mess stumbles. Writing surpasses that if and only if I can get this venture enough momentum that I can begin to focus with some sort of idea of direction. If I get 80% of it I call it a victory and I can move on. If I get 50% I know I will continue to beat a dead horse. Less and it becomes a running theme that sneaks into everything untilI attempt to exorcise it which at times only leads to the previously mentioned entombment until I can bury it or use it to scold my stupored id.
I've improved greatly I'm told in the same breaths that critique. There is something primal about someone tearing into your piece and pulling it apart that causes you to recoil in terror and fury. Check my math? Please, thank you and would you care for creme in your coffee? Tear my limping piece on why I like chocolate bunnies and I hold myself from chewing off your face with some sort of sick interest of why you find fault in order to push me to bite more of your face. I don't understand it. It's either apathy of the sacrifice or a rollercoaster of emotion all ending with a feeling of failure. I never had this skin thickened and I wish I was able to attain it. Here I scream out ramblings can feel I achieved much and others simply struggle to get through misspellings and circular points and nonsense. So I force myself to edit and try not to symbolically flip the table and give up completely only to realize I have nowhere else to go but the mess I left.
That's an image, huh? A filthy anarchist in shambles as it places a comical bomb on a bridge causing to burn as they dance against 'Merica and God and Country only to run off and drive the firetruck into the river from the damaged bridge they destroyed. It's hilarious here, but when you see it .....yea, it's sad. So....yea, don't do that?
FOCUS
I know what you're saying, "Auggie, you magnificent bastard, you're just stalling! You haven't said anything outside that you like writing and it's incredibly difficult to you, you most charismatic and scoundreled individual, you!" And yes, I would have to answer with yes, I am stalling. This is basically a mic check of sorts. I wanted to get something written in order to continue to. I needed to prevent literary blue balls. I wanted to know I can still write when need to, especially now since I am so full of thought I don't know where to start. I want to write about an achievement and then something that still haunts me today. To rant at the innate simplicity of what is evil and what is not evil which so many are literally bending over backwards to negate and declare that they ALWAYS enjoyed the upright position of being able to inspect one's own jejunum with superiority and self-appointed greatness, oh how great are they people, so much greatness that it's blinding, this greatness is so great folks, believe me. There is so much within that I fear that if I share one idea with will be tainted with the other and not expressed to it's full glory. I know, it's stupid, but I feel this way and I wanted to see if I can write without any of it.
Yet, I am defensive. At this point of life, I realized that everything can and may be taken from you yet your ability to communicate is only taken by force or willingly given up for whatever reason. I've given it up once. For happiness. For what I called happiness which was pleasing someone who didn't think I should disagree with them. That any discontent would be met with imaginative measures of hell that may endure through the night and longer. Where anything of worth to you, no matter how small can be taken and smashed in front of you. Where you are not worth anything to them and they will beat that into you for your own good without any regards to their own being. They do it out of love, which is the most horrific self-justification I've ever had heard from upright apes who declare to know the heart of the universe. What is it about people who knows best for you and their idea of how the universe is behind them fully.
And you're in the way. Why don't you let me love you? Why do you make me do this to you? Why must I go to these measures? Why can't you trust me? I should have never cared about such a shitty excuse for a person.
Each of those remarks came with a physical injury and scar to boot. Sometimes they're reminders of what was and what never should have been. Other days they are fuel to never shut up and serve as proof that if anyone can not reason with you without force they are not worth your time. Ever.
.......
FOCUS
....yea, writing is difficult, but I have my reasons. I have to and it's probably the vice to do me in one day. I also will let it take me. I've had moments where words have failed me and that alone has caused me to realized that only a mind unwilling entertain you can be your limit. I'm learning that a mind that is closed off is not worth your reach. That doubt is more than enough for them and you must reach those willing to entertain your openly. Life is too short. Anyone who either stifles you or negates your effort with ignorance is not worth the effort when the willing are always that. So I write for myself. I edit for you, but I write for myself in hopes of trying to make some sort of sense to what I see and I can not comprehend fully. To bring meaning to what I can not wrap my mind around and to hope that once say it makes sense to someone else. Not lofty goals, but they are mine. I don't see fortune from this, only a clear mind and perhaps a chance to fall asleep as soon as my head hits the pillow.
That's good enough, no?
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