Who are we kidding? Most writing is cringe-worthy at some level.
It is verbal diarrhea.
Sometimes I want words to have lives of their own.
They should say “fuck you floozie, I am my own being. You wrote me but that doesn’t give you any ownership over me” and strut away. Then we would think twice before penning down our thoughts. We would not be splattering our words all over indiscriminately, gloating over it, creating avatars and standing next to every word eagerly waiting… for what? for what?
But somewhere a reader comes, most likely, another mass-cringe producer, with his or her wares. Suddenly a bond develops built on wordy rejects. Taking turns, they scoop and smear their words over each other, wallowing in it, delighting in the sticky drippings.
The words, I would think, they don’t want to be part of this. Why would they? They want to break free. Scurry away disgusted from prison like pages, from the cheap papers. Maybe some of them want to slowly fade away into mutilated, smudged-shadows of their fresh selves. Some might want to march off steely-eyed in search of conjunctions.
Some might just want to be better used. Maybe some will stay.
Read Tanizaki. Don’t read Tanizaki. Or maybe just read Tanizaki.
If I had stories to say, I would say them. If I have words, but no stories to say, I puke them out. A projectile of words.
I never thought of words as bilious. But maybe they are.
Words, words, words everywhere. They are everywhere, everywhere. Oppressive and invisible. One day I’ll string them all and drown them in the ocean.
The world will be silent.
Let the ocean dwellers suffer.