This is writing as art. What I’m writing doesn’t make any sense. It doesn’t have to make sense. It simply has to be me. Filling in the spaces, out of a void of whiteness.
Void. What is that? When we think of the universe before big bang/creation the world was in darkness. At the end of the universe will it be the opposite. Will everything be whiteness?
Spaces. Spaces in the way. Filling up the corners of my soul. Here comes a little something lighting up my life. There she goes merrily, stomping on pink gumboots.
This is the picture. This is the way. Finding the abstract. Letting the ‘all’ have it’s say. Don’t try to find. No easy way to say. These are the sharp pieces splintering the mind.
This is how the mind goes. This is how time flows. Memories are made. Memories blend and blur from one thought to another. This is my writing. No. This is my typing.
When did writing become typing. Why say writing when we are no longer writing. Say what it is. Type how it is. It is typing, not writing. Do people still get calluses on their thumbs? Uni students moan about aching hands in exams. Writers with callused hands raise their eyebrows. Are you kidding me? No!
The world is awake. People are asleep. We walk through our waking lives in an eternal slumber. Coming to life only in our dreams.
Driver, ride on. Clear the path. Take me to a place where the words are clear. Words of fire. Words on the wall. Words are here. Words I know, not at all.