the finer line

I seem to cloak everything in code. The meaning is always underneath what is actually showing. I only indicate signals, and I’m the only person who understands the code. So essentially, I’m always writing to myself. I am my own audience. I seem to be ostracizing the rest of world. 

This is all an attempt to ward off the ever-imposing inevitability that I have nothing to write about by treating the act of writing like doing reps of push-ups. I’ve made this reference before. In a poem I think. Writing in this manner is easy because the story of nothing is ever-playing in my mind. It takes no algebra, no crafting of plot, no decisions with regard to aesthetic or originality. These headaches can remain neglected.

It’s easier to speak in code to oneself, to try then to decode in order to better understand the mutation that begins at birth and entraps the soul at adulthood. What if we could fully understand the purity of every impure thought?

– Make codes out of speech. Make the language of your mind turn ever inward and your thoughts windmill inside yourself.