Recto-verso, verso-recto, the slow scratch of page upon page, the teasing turn of squeezed pulp, the mind’s eye rolling over a shifting landscape of creased valleys and pressed paper peaks. And wandering across the reamed realm, a litany of words. An inky black army marching across snowy wastelands, a broken mirror of self reflection, a quivering fusion of thought and formless pictures, a melting pot of stories, of half-cut emotions, and a tired and unyielding confusion of propositions.
But in this land, words are king. They govern and control, leaving nothing beyond their tricameral grasp. They are the executive, the legislature, and the judiciary made one. They are the dirt and the walls; the people and their fearful secrets; they are earth and the moon, and the glint of the setting sun. They are the currency and the fuel of creation. The raw power that can make worlds and rip them asunder. But hidden behind their power, lies a terrible secret. The furtive truth that, no matter their apparent majesty, they are also flat, a fiat currency, and at best a mere proxy for the wild propositional realms that bubble in a perpetuity of chaos beyond their reach.
To write is to flick words at a canvas. To be in thrall to the propositional realms, while only armed with a palette of words. It is to look for possibilities, to dance with logic, to give pleasure, to communicate, and to desperately hide that which might otherwise remain clear. Write to be free, write just to be, and write to bury ideas whole, seeding today’s ground with the fossilised thoughts of tomorrow.