Recto-verso, verso-recto, the slow scratch of page upon page, 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, half-cut emotions, and an unyielding profusion of propositions.
But in this land, words are king. They govern and control with tricameral authority. They are the executive, the legislature, and the judiciary made one. They are the dirt and the walls; the earth and the moon; and the glint of the setting sun. They are the currency and the fuel of creation. The raw power that makes worlds and rips them asunder. But hidden behind their power lies a terrible secret. The furtive truth that, no matter their majesty, they are a fiat currency, a mere proxy for the wild propositional realms that bubble in perpetuity beyond their reach.
To write is to flick words at a canvas. To be in thrall to the propositional realms while armed only with a slim dictionary. Writing is to look for possibilities, to dance with logic, to give pleasure, and to communicate. So I write to be free. I write to devour ideas whole, and I write to seed today with the fossilised thoughts of tomorrow.