Alpha
The Beginning
Hi,
I've always wanted to write, but lacked any enduring commitment to do so. I wondered why. I still wonder, but am not lost on the reasons. Lack of accountability. Lack of focus. Lack of time? No. Never time. Everyone has time. These are not revolutionary or even at all unique. But they are like chasing thoughts while editing. Compounding distractions, fragmented ideas, formatting, grammar, style, forks, tangents. Running in a dream. White noise. Snow. Static. Space. Drama.
I have a thing for waste. Words that are unremarkable fall into waste, which is greatly discouraging when you're trying to write. I recycle too much abstract shit. If I want to swap a word out for another word, I'll try to reuse as many of the letters as possible. Need to search for something online? Use an already open tab, if I'm done with it. Spaces? Only ever one space. I'm triggered by formatting that uses two spaces and love abusing conjunctions.
But I'm inspired. Persons inspired. There are a lot of talented writers, but without any deeper connection to the author, it gets lost in space. These bonds coalesce in different ways, different directions.
*Pause for paranoia...*
So, here's where I begin to document (un)relatable thoughts. The agony of an uncertain future, immediate and unreachable. The helplessness of space beyond our universe, beyond our imagination. The enormous worlds within worlds, fractals of reality spiraling into a point so fine it's nothing. Frustration. The utter fucking magnitude of things we don't know or understand, but spend a disproportionate amount of time speculating on possibilities. Sovereignty of self, the greater good, karma, more space...
Utility, drama, longing, sitting here stalling to post this but fuck it.
I hope this message finds you.