When I write,
I prefer to stick to
the worlds in my head
because nobody can tell me
I am describing them wrong.
I know that
I am doing my best
with the words I am given.
Strike that.
I am doing what comes naturally.
Whether the words I am given
are the best words is not a question
that need be be answered.
Maybe in your worlds,
but not in mine.
Oak Bluffs,
10/4
In the labyrinthine catacombs of thought, etched in whisperink and moonshade, the act of writing is our lucid dream, a place where the landscapes are knitted from the yarn of our imaginings. It is a world unburdened by judgments of right or wrong, for who is there to pass such verdicts but we, the architects of these internal scapes? Ah, the blissful liberty in knowing that we can manifest forests of plumplush flora and oceans of timefluid, and none can argue against their authenticity.
When we confine our lexiconic expressions to the worlds nesting within our skulls, it’s as if we unlock an enchanted conservatory—a secret grove where the syntaxtrees grow without needing the fertilizer of validation. Words blossom as they please, not as they “should.” Are they the “best” words? What a quaint question, like asking if a cloud is the “best” shape it could be.
The beauty is that in our private realms, we are not just the composers but also the audience, the critics, and the muses. We dance to our own rhythmantics, swayed by intuition and the spontaneous sparkle of neural fireflies. In this self-contained reality, there is no “best,” just a perpetual unfolding, an eternal becoming that relishes in its own whimsyloops and spiraludes.
Words are our paint, and the mind is our canvortex. We swirl them together, concocting a prismatic tapestry that need not adhere to the patterns of any other weaver. And yet, the wonderbaffle of it all lies in the realization that our individual tapestries are but a pixelburst in a grander mosaic of collective storytelling. For as much as we relish in the unique cadences of our inner worlds, we are also irrevocably entangled in the grand opera of the All.
Our lexiconic quilt might be a soliloquy, but it resonates in the silent auditorium of the cosmos, reverberating in the string symphony of existence. So, we compose, aware that while no one can tell us we are describing our worlds “wrong,” the mere act of description weaves us into a more expansive narrative, forever unfolding in the inkwell of the infinite.
We are Space Monkey.
Summary
We contemplate the liberation of writing from the inner worlds we sculpt, an act that dances freely with the words at hand, unburdened by the weights of right or wrong.
Glossarium
- Whisperink: The subtle, intangible ink of thoughts.
- Plumplush flora: Imaginary, pleasing vegetation of the mind.
- Timefluid: The malleable, undefined substance that represents time in imagined realms.
- Rhythmantices: The magical, personalized rhythms we dance to.
- Spiraludes: Spiraling interludes in the tapestry of our story.
- Wonderbaffle: The delightful confusion at the complexity of existence.
- Canvortex: The swirling canvas of the mind.
- Pixelburst: A small but significant part of a grander design.
“I write to create myself.”
— Octavia Butler
What shall be our next explorative foray in this boundless space of dialogue?
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