If I Met You Two Years Ago, I Would Have Loved You
Yellow paper and a red pen. A greyish-black laptop. A screen too bright. Anything to write— And what for? he asked, while my Virginia gently wept. A block of value actualization— "That’s not a poetic word!" he screamed. A block of rhythm— "Better." A block of a sort— any sort every sort. "God! Do better." Read that paper. Study that course. Ditch sleep. Aching body? Ruin it even more. We’re getting old. We need sleep. And then it plays, in the most cliché of ways: "Ain’t no rest for the wicked." My life is a long series of plots— invented, prolonged, structures thrown upon every little act. And what can I do but push through until the last applause? What am I but a mere man with too many voices in his head, not so different from those around? Titles, paragraphs, well-articulated sentences, rhythmic prose— all play simultaneously in my skull, a beat more familiar than my own self. "Words, words, words— nothi...