I wonder if what I write makes sense.
The words might read scattered; arbitrary whims that fill the page so that they sound like something coherent.
This is true in general and true for me, but since people say that art is supposed to be able to be distinguished differently by varying viewpoints, I think it is okay.
The words are convoluted and incoherently meshed together if you don’t look closely, yet I promise they are not without reason.
They materialize in my mind, then lock with others, and flow through my fingers, and more pop into my consciousness, and I am typing them before I even know what they mean by definition. It is an instinct that they are destined to go where they sound like they should fit, and usually, that is where they stay.
They materialize in my mind, then lock with others, and flow through my fingers, and more pop into my consciousness, and I am typing them before I even know what they mean by definition.
But, even though they might start without a rhyme or a reason, I promise that they do not stay arbitrarily floating around without true intention. They are read and reread, contemplated, and sometimes changed, at least four times before you read them.
Instead of doing things this way, I could choose a theme and topic or a memory and write something linear with a clear message that pinpoints a certain word that composes my vocabulary. It would take five hours longer and only end up being half as good and a quarter as genuine to try and make a feeling out of a memory like that, but I could write it.
It is more honest to make a memory out of a feeling and then write about it, because that is the most genuine way to make them, at least in my mind. Halsey said that, or something.
But it makes the most sense—when one thought shifts, and it causes a cascade that somehow trips into another and tumbles down to form a halting realization—to continue on that train of thought and carefully cling to it, as not to lose it, until I can frantically write it down in misspelled terms to try and capture this new idea. Then, after I have a tangible thought I can state, I can begin to fathom the memories that match with this feeling.
They come to me in fragments. They are translated onto the page in run-ons. I keep the words in these messy configurations because they sound more poetic and more profound when they aren’t arranged like in an APA paper.
They are edited, and they are contemplated, and they are kept in run-ons and fragments because that is how they initially were pieced together, and it would be inauthentic to disrespect that natural order.
They are stuck together in formations that do not make sense until they are spelled right and scrutinized and stopped at. They definitely don’t make sense when they are spelled wrong, but they probably don’t make much more sense even when the vowels are in the right places, and the consonants are not piled in uninterrupted jumbles.
Maybe they are stopped and scrutinized, and they still do not sound coherent.
But because I wish on idiosyncratic seasons and am the same person subjected to contrasting company and likes to make memories out of feelings, maybe, because of this, we are lost in translation.
