Writing cannot tell anything these days, the thing that needs to be told is composed of a little, tiny, single sentence. Is a single sentenced thought worth writing? As I chewing that question, my mind gets conquered by tumult, and I turn that little, tiny, pure, naïve thing into a colossal suffering which cannot be unveiled by a thousand sentences. Everything could stay the same, everything could stay. Writing is not enough then, as it is not enough now, I cannot tell, don’t you understand, I don’t have the vocabulary or the guts to tell.
Maybe I should paint, take a photograph, make a sculpture, or chisel little wooden forms, maybe I can shoot a movie, design a building, can I sew anything, or cook, what about creating, creating humanity, universe, writing is not enough, I can plant flowers, dig a hole in the ground, paint the window bars, I cannot write, it is not enough, help me, it is no good, not anymore.
I have some things that are pounding in my heart, yearning to escape; they are not words, no more words, some things, I need to gather them all together, and they need to form a new thing, something. That could have a name then, a beautiful name.
And then, I can kill it.
