A Hundred and Two

You, must write.

The hurt, the angry, the wronged, must write. The lost, the wandering, the silent, must write.
The ones with something to say, the ones with nothing left to say, must write.

Write for joy. Write for sorrow. Write for immortality. Write to demand justice, knowledge, utopia, answers – the dank, dirty things that are rightfully yours. Demand them from the only thing in the world that can give them to you – words on paper.

After all, money is paper. Provinces, promises and prayers are built on utterances. Value, judgement, sanity, achievement are all measurements, metered in and meted out in words.

Write to live richly. Write to go for broke. Write to reach inside paper and seize your disappointments by the collar. Write like a blind man, sensing each invisible word in braille. Write with blind lust. Kiss, bite, tear, claw at the lips of paper. Peel the skin of your fears, your failings, your mediocrity; peel them as curls of words on paper. Avenge bitter truth, savour sweet victory, be a wit, a scholar, everything you never knew you could be, on paper.

Fuck the establishment on paper, fuck with the rules, the rules of grammar on paper. Let the verb and subject disagree. Start a fight on paper. Screw the clause; let the semi-colon take it in the arse.

Write. Document every sorry, half-assed, near-miss vicissitude of your life when you write. Write to evaluate whether you’re doing a good job of being here. Write to see if you’re whiling, wasting, passing or pissing your time on earth.

Drop a spiral staircase of paper down to your soul. Hold a candle, and walk, walk, walk with weightless ease down into paper. Hold up the candle to the demons hiding in the walls. Be the pyro you could be, but never were. Words are aerosol. Say it. Spray it. Burn every last thing to the ground. Make a phoenix of your feelings.

Make paupers and princes equal on paper. Make a grown man cry with paper. Make up, make do, make way, make plans, make it happen on paper.

Confess to paper. Look at your face, your motives, your religion, your infinity through the delicate lattice work of your Origami confession box. Cross your t’s, dot your i’s, loop your q’s and b’s and endless whorls of self-pity, self-love, self-destruction, on paper. Write, because there is no other way to journey into or journey away from yourself.

Write to fold and collapse into paper. Hurtle through barely-solid rationality, through the veneer of order, and tumble into an endless free-fall: a suspension of disbelief that never needs to end. Be the astronaut of an endless sky of day, in a universe that is white, falling with a certain gravity, but with none of the impact. Write to fall into paper, to fall in love to a depth that nothing of this world could possibly offer.

Nothing with a name, a place, a significance has existed – because it went unsaid. Meanings have been attributed words, for a reason. Inventions, feelings, bodily idiosyncracies, gods, demons, all have names. All to be said. All to be called. All to be written.

Write the story of your life because it is a fairy tale. Write to be the hero of your happy ending. Write to put away your ghosts. Write to relive a past, to invent a future. Write to commit to memory. Write to commit. Put your spine, your money, your mouth, your convictions on paper.

Write. Because nothing truly exists until it is on paper.

5 thoughts on “A Hundred and Two”

  1. Do not have your talent.. and am envious. I am just discovering your writing. You write wonderfully well.

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