Creaking fingers

crawl across the keyboard. It feels almost as if there is a literal layer of rust surrounding my joints that needs to be worked off, scoured and cleaned before any kind of acceptable motion could occur. Clearly nothing good will come of this. My body is in revolt against my mind. “So much things to say,” it’s been said, but how can one say things if one is unable to create the words.

To struggle is sometimes more human than to celebrate.

Good aphorisms are like mountaintops, and the shortest walk between mountaintops would be a straight line…but for that one would need very long legs. My legs are short, but in my dreams they are long.

In my dreams my fingers don’t creak. They are well lubricated and consistently full of wisdom. In my dreams I don’t have arthritic hands. Older does not always equate to wiser. No matter how old my soul seems to be, wisdom comes hard, as if the wisdom of a new age leaps from mountain range to mountain range. Staring across great chasms of space is a difficult way to understand the world.

Great lives are like mountain ranges: most of life consists of the pass. “The son of the symbol-maker must die!” How true…

Be as dead to mankind as mankind is to you. I think I am incapable of originality. Or perhaps, more accurately, the originality has been sucked out of me. The only time I have any hope of originality is putting the pen on the page, but even then I am trapped. I am trapped by language. Put words together in a way that they have never been put together before. To you intrepid travelers in the world of the word, I bid you good luck. It is my guess, though, that perhaps you will find your fingers creaking with age and arthritis before you manage it. Even then, you might find your bowels rotting and a view of yourself from a spiritual plane having never written an original word in your life.

I move through phases, you see. Post-post Stucturalist Marxism Reactionismist. Modernism. Dadaism. Fascism. Leibowitzism. But youth is funny with its fickleness. SoactualizedamI that I can foregotraditionallanguage barriers like spaces and punctuation
Or
Even
Linebreaksinpages.

Un-something or other I something or other when I’m wandering somewhere around the illegitimate prince’s kingdom. The brain garbage seems to spew forth from cracks in the groaning joints:

But one must often work through the evil to harness the good. He who moves for right can come to no harm in a place where packs of wild dogs roam. We’re talking about killing gods here, because in a place where intent is the only rule, actions can be brutal.

Maybe a man can learn to decode the symbols of existence. What does it mean that almost all things work out mathematically, artistically, scientifically, historically, sociologically, statistically, and any other allys you can think of. Why does it work out? They all make a perfect kind of sense.

It’s not the past, as you may have believed, but the future. We are living in the future. It is easy to live in the past, for it is that which we understand. We moved through it, learned from it, and continue to learn from it. It is easy to live in the future, for it is that which we can plan for. We know what’s possible and think we can keep away harm. It is very difficult to live in the present. It moves around too much.

And yet it is in this time that our realities are at their most realistic real. Now! My fingers creak. Now! I feel the pain. Now! I move into the future. Now! I move into the past. Now! I seek a place of no pain. Now! I must be my most conscious. For there to be a future, I must make it through the present. To learn all I can from the past, I must live long enough to make a past.

“Slime monsters are eating my brain!” I cry. But pleasure works the same way.

We remember pleasures which give us something to look forward to. But can you enjoy the moment of pleasure that lasts only the moment? Can you enjoy the moments that will not happen again? Can you enjoy the moments that will never happen?

“A thousand attractive women want to have sex with me and pleasure me physically, financially, orally, and eternally.”

And maybe my fingers creak from all the scratching at doors to places I oughtn’t to be. The point of origin becomes the point of return.

Creak…