Substantiality

It feels like I’ve spent so long trying to hide myself behind words and characters; as opposed to expressing the emotions, thoughts, and ideas that germinate them, they’ve been an escape from the fact. From trying to say it compact and loaded, or long and elegant, it’s never been honestly said; just said. I’ve tried to be clever, ingenious, droll, urbane, satirical, and witty; only to be rewarded with mere ghosts of a person. The pretensions of writing are that you are a contradiction yourself. Drawing up people from real life or ghost memories; coaxing up situations that have never arisen; feigning emotions that haven’t truly been felt. Having to see words reflecting back at you, words I wrote in claimed truth, and knowing that that’s a truth I can’t even feel. There’s such a travesty in it, even in this, where I’m roving the mind for clever attempts and metaphors to appease some creative spark within, yet each line of attempted catharsis never hits home. What is writing if not an exegesis of yourself?

I read lines back to me that seem so petty and unlived. Who is that naïve soul that is spouting such holy commands? Did I ever live the words I’m reading, did I ever love the countless phantom lips I said I’ve kissed; has there ever been a substantial moment worth recording, or is this life all a big melodrama of mangled literary grandiosity?

What is this search, this bildungsroman? Can I ever come of age, become a man, look at the world and not be afraid at how horridly wrong it feels…I’m getting tired of never knowing and always hoping for the answer in the writing, but I’ll keep going I suppose, because it’s all I know---there I go again with the pretension. It seems I can’t help but hate being a writer—if that’s what I am--- because there’s no imminent glory in knowing words and using them at your whim. What good is expression if it isn’t earnest, but feigned, for art’s sake. There’s always a question fueling it; the manic musings and proclamations, warnings, or warring advice that I’m more prescribed to take. If transposing my woes on the world, on all the countless people I claim to know and don’t, and the millions of others I will never; who am I to demand their attention?

All I can say is that I’ve lived more privileged than I deserve. I’ve tried to find kindness in the world, though have succumbed to the follies. Where perfection walks I’ve vainly attempted to trod, yet maturation is a gorey process. I’ve tried to understand and failed; grasped some and then never fully seized what it yielded. I’ve yearned for love, foolishly worn stoicism as armor, and am now reaping the harvest of such idiocy; I’ve no idea how to conduct relationships with anyone anymore. I don’t know what these words can say or what power I can give them (if any)….I suppose this whole rant is about what I don’t know.

There’s no glory in feeling pathetic for yourself, if anything you’re more despicable for it. I guess this is all warranting some worthwhile sagacity, some wisdom to be gained from this, if only to be run amiss at the next attempt to showcase it. This quest, the road that never ends, it’s all in attempt to do something substantial. To have a legacy of something, a body of worthwhile contribution or statement; like the narcissistic desire to procreate and carry on your name. I’ve no desire for a son to bear my name, nor its flaws and strengths into the next age; I’d rather a lesson or viewpoint or realization that I’ve yet to reach; an epiphany righteously earned, deserving of contemplation and deep meditation. Perhaps the ego deserves deflating; hang up the pen and plug away until I’ve a miniature life to spread my name, maybe then I’ll feel substantial.