The stone or the throw?
No, I’m not being political I’m pondering the idea of literature and what we think that lilting, lovely, lofty, lulling language is – literature. Nobody likes a conspiracy theorist on the opposite side of a solid answer.
Literature is a story turned into a symbol by those who cannot stand a story. The stake that pierces the heart turns into a phallic symbol. That interpretation gives pause; what sort of mind is able to turn violence (for good or evil) into a symbol?
I love particularly the critiques comment that a long-dead author wrote in a surprisingly modern style. I think of a reader who sits within the comforts of a dusty, winged-back chair and chuckles over such language — knowing full well that the “modern,” writing means culture has found stagnation.
I wander the streets of Chicago at night because I can. I am a god (notice the little g please) among the masses that light this city and pave its roads and destroy its beauty into another sort of beauty. All the while, writers of literature ponder symbols and rhymes that only they and a select few understand.
I don’t try to write, I don’t need to write. I simply walk and when I’ve had my fill, I sit and read the rags that feel glossy and shine under the electric lights. I don’t need to read the stories but read the critical reviews and feel fine in the hiding I do in the plain sight of darkness. I’m allowed to for now.
There is a problem. The masses are catching on in a fashion. There was a time I could pull the life out of a person and not no one would turn around to watch the ecstasy of my fatal kiss. There would be those who would yearn for me but none who would interfere – but a few are starting to raise their crosses again.
You think I mock? Or do you think I jest? The ones with the power of the pen often do at the end. No one realizes that the audience is gone. Don’t be confused, there is no victory in the pendulum tick and tock of the world. Go ahead and mock the superstitious they will pray for you.
It matters little to me other than the mundane existence I lead. I walk a god amongst those who feel no need for good or evil, I will fight the war that is coming when the deceived become a mob. It always happens.
I frankly don’t give a damn either way. It is not my business to find a winner outside of myself and the continual movement of deception. I applaud the striving for self-actualization that everyone feels should be universal. Breathe deeply and find the hum of the universe, a moment of ecstasy that will pull you along until another moment alone.
I’ll read all your old stories verbatim and laugh.