Feeling dumb and blind reading Nabokov. Contradicting advice from classmates on how to better my story. I will make it better, yes. (Below the desk my foot knocks over the stack of their assessments). Their pretensions brought blood to my face. Oh yeah yeah. For sure. I don't belong with them. I fell into a schizophrenic mimetic fallacy. I slipped behind some curtains and wrote a story about passion and tension. Dominating response was that the story was too fast paced, like an intense movie. This is how I wanted it. Apparently I can't use metaphors unless they make sense with the narrator. Apparently I can't enter other heads. I can't even write grammar good. I still don't know how to notate dialogue. Am I right? I don't know when to use a semi-colon. This is a big world of literature. I close myself off and write frantically, like it will determine the fate of the world. The fate of my world. Writing until the tendons in my wrists ache and plead to stop. But no. I will continue through the cries for abstinence. I will fill my belly full of adjectives and pronouns and superlatives and verbs and vomit on the pages for you. I will color myself in. My characters are black and white but not stack. I overstated their love, certainly. I overstated many things. I will edit and revise in insane nights of sleepless agonizing. I will write a song. I will die.
The sustainable forestry initiative.
Oh so you care about the environment?
Why don't you ever speak up in class, lovely young lady?
Not one word. As far as I'm concerned.
Check her phone like a heart monitor.
If the messages, the bleeps, slow down and level out, she's dead. Her heart has stopped because no one cares about her or what happens to her.
Maybe she will live happily in Italy. Maybe she will discover greatness in man. Maybe she will be kidnapped and systematically destroyed by foreign governing agents, in black suits, and black hearts.
We thought the walk was incredibly long but it seems shorter now.
WE NO LONGER HAVE A LOVELY WALK AHEAD OF US
Squeeze your eyes shut and try to block out those voices. The ones that remind you of me. The ones that remind you of false sentiments about 'home'. Home is the road. Home is not a location on a map.
Kill the lights and extinguish your burning desires. Become a monk in the high mountain canopy. Smoke opium in opium dens with those who will never understand what it is like.
