It dawned in me a while back that the ink with which we write is black and blue.
This may seem insignificant, but now whever I look at a clean white sheet of paper-
All I can think about is that I am about to bruise its skin black and blue.
A veritable pummeling.
By transferring my thoughts onto paper I am committing an act of violence.
I don't think that I can write anymore.
Think of all those screaming pieces of paper.
In your desk.
In your binders.
Crammed into the books on your shelf.
Waiting in your printer-tray for their impending doom.
Literature is a violent hate crime.
This is a mad world.
Yet, I am comforted by my infrequent use of red-inked pens.
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5 comments:
Oooo, you're dark.
were you perhaps doing weed when you wrote this blog?
only if one is still high like a week later...but it is andrew...
I thought this idea up months ago, it is still written shitily, but no I wasn't high when I was writing this. Although I don't need drugs to be high...bless my twisted brain chemistry. I just wanted be the voice for the voiceless. Paper is being abused routinely in our society. Let's keep going on that subject shall we. What could I possibly mean by being disgusted by our use of paper? It means many things to me, but it could also mean many things to the reader...maybe I will write another post to explain.
I liked it a lot.
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