I used to think that putting something on paper was a way of making it more real. Because, well, there it was--what had been imagined was now arrayed across the screen or page in straight, readable lines. I could see them; you could see them.
But lately, the last few days, I've been working on something that seems to disappear as I'm putting it out there. And the more detail I add, the more of it I seem to lose.
And maybe that's because of what it was in the first place, something meant to get me through some of the hard times. Something meant to take the place of something that had been missing, for a very long time.
Maybe it's because the magic of it goes away in the daylight and it becomes just words, instead of being what it was to me when it was a fantasy. Now, there's all the work of resolving inconsistencies and conflicts, the lapses in logic, etc.
Now, instead of being about the magic, it's about the writing. It's about the process of it and not the promise it held--and, in its vague way, fulfilled--when it was a dream.
The upside is, I'm starting to like the words, that whole thing, again. It's pretty much crap, now that it's out there, but I like the words. Some of them, a few of them. What I have to do with them to make them speak for me. Which can be, I suppose, a different kind of magic.
And that thing about time, it’s kind of a shared illusion, isn’t it? We live with it, we bend it this way and that, it seems like it’s just gotta be forever and, for all we know, it is.
But our time, the time that’s ours, that’s different, that’s finite. Which means, probably, that we are too. But either way, whatever we know, whatever we believe, in the end we disappear…
no subject
Date: 2019-08-05 01:44 pm (UTC)Nobody ever has forever. The Universe is quite capricious that way.
no subject
Date: 2019-08-05 08:30 pm (UTC)But lately, the last few days, I've been working on something that seems to disappear as I'm putting it out there. And the more detail I add, the more of it I seem to lose.
And maybe that's because of what it was in the first place, something meant to get me through some of the hard times. Something meant to take the place of something that had been missing, for a very long time.
Maybe it's because the magic of it goes away in the daylight and it becomes just words, instead of being what it was to me when it was a fantasy. Now, there's all the work of resolving inconsistencies and conflicts, the lapses in logic, etc.
Now, instead of being about the magic, it's about the writing. It's about the process of it and not the promise it held--and, in its vague way, fulfilled--when it was a dream.
The upside is, I'm starting to like the words, that whole thing, again. It's pretty much crap, now that it's out there, but I like the words. Some of them, a few of them. What I have to do with them to make them speak for me. Which can be, I suppose, a different kind of magic.
And that thing about time, it’s kind of a shared illusion, isn’t it? We live with it, we bend it this way and that, it seems like it’s just gotta be forever and, for all we know, it is.
But our time, the time that’s ours, that’s different, that’s finite. Which means, probably, that we are too. But either way, whatever we know, whatever we believe, in the end we disappear…