I'm not sure what I'm writing in writing this, but I've wanted to write it for a while. My thoughts can be syllables and splashes i urge myself to guide into a mold of coherence, sharpened to a point.
Sometimes I resent that mold, resent the not incorrect assumption that communication relies on a bartering of symbols and stories, truth in context between words. Words carry weight, slowed enough that we can model their migration. They bend, articulate, bounce off each other, but in the end all they can do is sit still and hope for coherence. But I don't know if I feel limited by coherence or scared of making my point.
In an introductory screenwriting class, we (the students), all had to pitch a story aloud. We would collapse it into an attractive 10 seconds. In many cases, the instructor would softly poke at the foundations of our stories, and we would concede and say "Well, it's really about..."
I struggle so much to funnel words into feather-light packages, which is maybe why my blog posts are so measured. I'm writing like someone chasing threads to weave. Because beneath all of this is a craft, an act of communication. A million mediums, each their own art, each their own beginning and end, gallery and arena, limit and consequence. To express and receive will, to push my hand out and feel something is pushing back. But what then. what then? All words.
I'm not sure what I'm writing in writing this, but I've wanted to write it for a while. I hide myself in the noise that overtakes the signal.