"Man's 'progress' is but a gradual discovery that his questions have no meaning." ~ Antoine de Saint-Exupéry
Sometimes I worry that if I'm not writing, I would cease to exist.
When I can't handle the thought, I push it: I babble and publish anyways. Then slump in regret at the wasted .html spot, and delete that awful show of mediocrity.
I can’t help but believe that writing is the only way that I can leave a trace behind. Can't you see that I'm building my memorial?
Worse than trying to become immortal is being immortally remembered for crappiness. Every part into writing this had to be sequined with elements of perfection. Written at the sweetest pace, in the company of the finest espresso and kretek; sipped and whiffed with leisurely, arthritic slowness.
By the time you read this, I'll know that it won’t do me justice and I'd have to repeat the process all over again. Until some meaning sinks in.
Someday, I’m going to quit bothering so much and admit that fear is just another way to move your bowels, man.
Just not today.
