the a.b.c-ness of my thoughts

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Mar 18, 2025

Hi. This scribbling will be unedited; forgive the inadequacies of my sentences.

A.

A thousand things rumble in my head & the noise gets louder and louder every morning & night. My loss of appetite for things of the Spirit. The unaesthetic turn my creativity is taking. The contentions. The rejections that’s wrapped around empathy but still taste like mockery & failure. Within and without. The slump, the recession of reading I suffer. The consciousness that time won't allow me make progressive memories of this thing. The uncertainty of my novel & its audience. The fleeting surge to be recognized and not be recognized. The transiency of time, its illusions that it's in abundance, then the reality of unharnessed states of the mind, then the regret. The meagre substance of my dreams to the people; my speech with the world that: ‘what about me?’ & the world's response of: ‘yes, what about you?’ The silence between us in the family. The tales they tell. I can get this one on paper, these tales, and make novels of them, but who will believe them? The verisimilitude, rough. The desire to not graduate, to remain in the corridors of the library, for evenings to fall on my skin & for her to remain like the pages of the books, unexplored things. The death of my brain, the death of my will, the death of my dreams. Maybe to give up isn't quite a grievous thing.

B.

But someone's text comes in this night. She is a someone I never think can surface from the blues. Then, after the drolleries, she asks of my novel, this debut I'm dying slowly about, and I say it is okay, that it is like a train on track, after I have begun again, and that the characters are chaotic yet agile with remorse, and that writing can be a mad thing, and that rejections can be a madder thing because they make you feel seen ( & read by editors), but not recognized. And this thing about Stylistics, it’s intrinsic. We should be free, the world should see our liberties, the stylish economy of our sentences and the forthcomingness of our characters. But the world says the one it has is enough, that it doesn't need ours. And it saddens me. Maybe I'll be my best reader.

C.

Come, let us thank this audience. The two hundred & ninety six mail lives we intrude. This is the only thing that strengthens. That two hundred & ninety six humans, with their humanness coursing through their veins & minds, are reading our inordinate thoughts & the minuteness and insensitivities of our characters. Sometimes, we halt, this my mind & I, and think of what we shouldn't write so you won't get pissed & dust your caps and leave for other pastures with sense. But, still, you wait, you read the thoughts of an overthinker, the complex & the simple, the resonations & the distant, the insecurities & the likes; you read it all; these strengthen us. Somehow. In ways you don't know. Maybe you will soon.

D.

Death is the end of it all. And this awareness rings so much in us that we ignore. The Kafka of our lifetimes. The grief that burns through us with zeal when people go, when people die. How it retaliates. And they grief us, too, in the end. Will rejections & the madness of writing & the recognitions & the feats & the family’s strokes of pain matter then? Maybe it will never. Maybe it has never.

extra.

About the second half of my short story: of termites & tiny girls, certain readers have been asking that I upload it real quick, I will edit the post with its remainders if the character grants this exercise, so you might not receive a notification whenever this occurs. Thank you for the subtle & glaring encouragement. xx.