I want to write about nothing. I want to make endless non-sequiturs. I want to write riddles with no answers. I want to vomit forth words in a stream of conscious manner that mean absolutely nothing to no one, not even me, but reflect the inner thoughts and voices of that which cry out endlessly in my mind. Plaguing me as their keeper to pour forth into this illustrious air and take shape of their own accords. I long to make endless references to all sorts of random items and cram them together in a jigsaw puzzle that doesn’t fit together.
They say that the pen is mightier than the sword. They say to use words as a weapon. Then I wish to take this sword and create venomous words that will converge forth to commit seppuku of the mind. To confound and delude this world. Words that will cause glorious cacophony and discordant notes so that no one can appreciate them. I wish to paint on this blank white canvas black blood of which boils up inside of me. Only to take it and burn it so that its use as a fuel is the greatest accomplishment it generates.
I wish to never be great. To never be known. To hide in this blanketing fear of comfort and toil alone, unable to face myself. So that at the end of this life I can look back on this blank white canvas and laugh; laugh at what possibilities might have been. Laugh at my dreams. Laugh at my dilapidated life. Laugh at the futility of any accomplishment ever earned. All while crying inside, knowing that, that blank white canvas would be the reflection of my true self: empty.
For with each stroke of the keyboard each curve of the pen, I face myself.