What I Might Have To Say

 

 

I write because I have to, just to get it out. It's a manic logorrhea, something like Tourette's. The pressure builds and builds until I just can't hold it in. It's horrible, I know, this fevered flow of drivel. To spew without compunction  whatever's on my mind. But it could be worse, do understand, I could be on the phone: you'd have to hang up on me, or tell me I'm deranged. 

I'm not writing for an audience, that's too delusional for me. Besides to ease the pressure, I entertain myself. Some say it's only noise, but I swear I think it's funny. It might be better maybe if I had some kind of message, some content to communicate, some brilliance you could suck on and maybe chew a little. Nothing much, I know, I know, but there's a lot of that. An awful lot of nothing much. I can almost hear you gag.

I parody myself, that's what, I am a joke to me. I can't take me seriously either, the world has taught me that. I'm not sure which is better, to aim for comedy and fail or to find I'm comical despite my best intention. (Should there be a comma there? Insert one if it's needed.) I used to aim for literature, to be serious and wise, to show with my philosophy that I might have half a brain. So that someone might appreciate this thing I've made of me. Of course I failed. Alas, I say. What worthy thing could come from me?

So I type to entertain myself, to hear the words escape. I play word games I can't explain, make puns I won't explain,  and allude to other people's words I can't do better than. This style I cobble up from things that could not get away. It's the sound of one hand wanking, gripping only air. 

What else could I do, really? In this way at least I do express myself somehow. I beat around the bush so I don't get beaten up. I say next to nothing, because nobody's listening. There's nothing else to do with this  mess I've made of me.  

I've been alone too long, I think. I've forgotten what I mean. Or I've forgotten how to mean, perhaps that's more the thing. That brought me only pain, all the times I ventured that: I can't hate myself enough to be a proper masochist. But the urge to write, the need to say, surpasses understanding. And so I cannot but.

But if I had something to say what might I have to tell you? To confide, to confess how alone out here I am? 'I'm miles above you. Soon I'll splat.' Would that be good enough? Could you ever understand? Oh but if you did you would refuse me, you'd leave my hand ungrasped. I now better than to stick anything  out that way. So I'll fall to earth and then some, make a mighty indentation, with lots of cracks that radiate to show the lack of meaning. But I will do no wobbling off, I have no strength for that. If my resilience weren't all spent I'd not be sharing this, to an imaginary reader I dare not summon forth. 

I am alone, and sad, and old, and ailing, and I see no future. I would ask for aid or comfort, if such were possible. If there was anybody to whom I might direct my plea. But I won't. I can't. There isn't one out there. But since I find myself compelled to write I might as well have fun with this. Then I could go to bed convinced I've just been clever. 

So there. Tah-dah. Shazam I say! Alas!