It is something so strange that I often encounter trouble trying to explain it to anyone. How is it possible words are faster than the mind? How is it possible one can write without thinking too much about what comes out? The mind is a strange place, too many dark cavities, depths that can’t be entered by the conscious. What is the use of trying when all you get out of it is senseless gibberish?
The use is this. The use is the words that flow faster than thoughts, the words that rhythmically leave my head through my fingers on my keyboard, the way blood would leave my veins if I cut them. These words are lessons; they take me on a journey that is both instructive and terrifying. They ask me questions. They ask questions I refuse to answer and they ask them until I break in tears and answer them. Until I take a stand. They ask for opinion. They ask, no, they demand me to open the box.
So what are these words? What is their nature? Can I even speak of something like nature in a context so unnatural to words, words that usually are being processed by the ration, that are thoughtful or tactless, that are meaningful or senseless? I doubt it.
But then, I doubt a lot. I doubt everything, starting with myself and ending with infinity. Where do we start? What do we do? What is our goal? Where are we going? Where are we?
That’s what the words ask me. Where the hell are you. What is your stand, what is your position. Ask, ask, ask, until my fuse blows, until I can’t take no more pressure and start screaming opinions, opinions of all sorts, not mine, not necessarily, or all mine, I don’t know. I don’t know.
Can you answer a question by not answering it? Oh yes. Can you answer a question with another question? Oh yes. Every answer is an answer, an answer that tells the words something about the answer. The words, and the words are you. The words are me. The words are us. The words are the thoughts that subconsciously drift along in the bloodstream in my brain, little molecules in synapses; electrical impulses taking a strange turn on the neuro-pathways. The words are like blood, they come everywhere, and their stains are hard to remove.
I have let the words come out. I let the words come out. I let them come out because inside they just do more harm than when I let them quietly leave my body.
Ask me questions.
I will not answer.
That will be your answer.
There is no way not to choose.
Even the lack of choice is a decision.
Even the silence is an answer.
Even rest is a state of movement.
Time goes on and so do we,
So make your choices thoughtfully.