i always imagined that one day my words would run dry like a river of emotions that has been carelessly manipulated for way too long. a fear all writers have. for there was a time when my words were simply anecdotes i could tell you in tales that were less enriching, tales that were only a repetition of everything i didn’t want to say. but they were still true to my humanness, to my diminishing versatility and my atrophied arrogance. the glory that came my way still feels as hollow when i think about it. and i am forced to wonder what my present self would have done. words that i spun out of malice and admiration, both, have been real – in a way. but also irrevocably immature: something i assume would not be the case with my present self. after all, i’ve matured with age, haven’t i? or have i only dented my imagination and restricted the boundaries of my mind?
no. of course. i am supposed to have matured with age.
yes, thank you.
but what if i were to say that tales i spin now are artificially manufactured, manipulated to the hundredth degree, to appeal to my immature self? at times? yes. maybe. or maybe not.
what are these false stories i picture and why do i hold them with a conviction so strong that my own belief system is now a blur of vibes i seem to have inherited from some of the best works off the bottom most shelf of the worst spinners. why am i bound by a peculiar nonchalance that may or may not have resembled me in the past. why am i dwindling atop the peak of verbose bipolarity – the flip side of which hides in between pages that i like to flip through when all the world is silent with no noise left behind for me to dip my toes in.