Others say it’s a prose poem gone wrong… All we know is you shouldn’t try writing closer to breakfast than you were to lunch and hope for good writing.
I think being able to see the disparate themes which lie between works is one of the fundamentally beautiful things about reading of all kinds.
Everything, in a totally unhippie way, is connected (, dude) and that’s beautiful (, man). (Like,) Our lives are less meaningful without interactions with those around us and, though I despise the way that society can pin an individual down, I love that there is a world around me full of people who think at least as complexly as I do.
I love the way I can try to categorise an idea into ‘thoughts on the individual’, thoughts on society’, ‘thoughts on whether it is ethically correct to dip McDonalds’ chicken nuggets in McFlurry’ (McNo) but, at the end of the day, it would never be quite as complete a list as I think it to be.
Everything can be reinterpreted and reevaluated and reconsidered until we can’t know anything for sure other than that we are here.
No idea is totally final and everything, though it may not seem when we’re there, is transient.
But none of what I’ve said is original.
‘Everything is transient’ is ‘This too shall pass’ with one less word compensated by ‘fancier’ ones.
Searching for a new world, I discover ports and harbours, claiming them for my own.
I leave having given them little but thinking they owe me the world.
My canoe is swept on by the current of its own cliches, reproducing itself in the ripples.
Never again though is it quite the same as the origin.
Never is the origin quite forgotten.
The traces remain in the reverberations and, though they cannot know their origins, those who watch will.
Those watching may ride the current or steer elsewhere.
But there are 7 billion different streams to slip behind, forgetting those which have already been traced through the waters.
There will be a link somewhere for us.
And that’s beautiful(, man).
That I’ve thought of something which may have been regurgitated by someone living thousands of years ago.
And then a few more times more a few hundreds of years ago.
And several hundred times more a hundred years ago.
And it’s still, somehow, not quite a carbon copy as any, as all our destinations and starting points were / will be / are different.