I am listening to the faraway beeping sounds coming from a garbage truck out the window, amid the rain’s soft scrim. Simultaneously, I am thinking about you. I have started to believe that the idea one may comprehend another is some ridiculous colonialism. Mainly because I write about you all the time without understanding you at all, fully aware of the fact that I am making things up as I go.
But that doesn’t make a difference to me who you are. It doesn’t make a difference to yourself on how you act or perceive the world. You reading my writing is a bliss and a terrifying thing for me. But I keep showing them to you. Because you’re the only one that matters when it comes to my readership. Does writing need an audience? I stopped thinking about this matter when I bought my website. I thought, if I could just put something out there and leave it, pretend I am throwing a baby out into a black hole and forget about it, that’s all that matters. So, in a way, my writing is very irresponsible. You could say it’s a writing of cruelty. And there’s nothing artistic about it either. My writing consciously tries not to be precious, and it tries not to be haughty. It is something that is lost, forlorn, just like myself. It does not apologize or ask for sanctions, and it certainly does not beg for attention. It won’t tell you what to do, or whether to believe in anything. It has opinions like a spell checker on Microsoft Word underlining words in red. But that is as far as it goes, and you won’t have to listen to it. You can certainly disable my writing, but it won’t change the fact that somewhere on the canvas, this invisible marker underlined an invisible red underneath some unexpiring words. It won’t die.
Sometimes when everything is quiet and still, I read my own writing and weep silently. There are days that beckon you to reminisce and regurgitate on life, just as there are days you wish you weren’t alive.
I am terrified by the idea of you having similar rituals. If you were to write, would that also to avoid suicidal thoughts? If you were to type as rhythmically and as regularly as I do, would that also to stop wanting to undo something you intensely regret in life?