Title Comes Last

All words seem cliche. All descriptions seem obvious. All reactions seem necessary. All characters feel repetitive. Yet life is endless. Is there a limit to the amount to original fiction and poetry that we can create from one language? Or all languages? Like, could you come up with some sort of algorithm or something. If so, are writers just endlessly trying to pump water from a well thats drying up, or is writing more exploratory, like we’re trying to find new continents in a world we have already filled in. We already flipped the narrative on its head so what else can we do. Did modernism and post-modernism ruin literature for the rest of us. Did the romantics make nature look bleak in comparison to their poetry. What do we even do now. Just swirl the images about until we have something original. Or did someone already do that? Is method something that has to be worried about, or inspiration, or writing tools. Am I less because I write on a laptop, as apposed to those before me who had nothing but parchment and ink.

There’s nothing left for me in the world that hasn’t already been seen by human eyes. So how can there be anything left that I can write about. But I know literary history doesn’t stop because I say it does. It keeps on going round and round, even now future classics are being written in dusty rooms by men and women who are passionately frustrated with themselves. I’ve got to get this out, I’ve got to get this out. But it’s wrong. The words aren’t right on the page. But to edit feels unnatural. I've edited this. Is it right all along then? Or am I just broken. Like a record playing skipping over lines, it can’t go back and fix the sound it didn’t create. Or should I just give up now. How can I give up writing while I’m in the middle of expressing my thoughts on writing. See the text just became aware of itself, and then it did it again in the previous clause. If you feel as you write, and imagine the future of the words, you can see them being pulled apart by literary students and scholars. Or the words lie empty on a dusty shelf. Or the words go extinct. No body cares, like all those messages that will never be read again, living in a phone somewhere. Destined to irrelevance.

(This is where a conclusion should go)

Is this irrelevance, as as I write this nobody has ever read it. Barely even myself as I don’t really look back for more than a few words. Although my eyes just flickered upwards and read the word “already”. There’s no end, there’s no end, there’s no end. What am I going to do with this when I end. I don’t know. Who am I talking to? Am I imaging a reader, sitting behind a computer screen, at a desk, or in bed on a laptop, or in a library. Did you just get shocked, because you were in one of those locations? Is that reader me, looking back on this at some point and thinking… I don’t know, the thoughts won’t be formed for an indefinite amount of time. What do you think reader? About anything, the sate of the world? Are you happy? I hope so. You seem nice. Am I sucking up to you?

I wish images could appear in front of my eyes like sight does. I wish my imagination was so vivid that I was blind. Or is it anyway? I was always very distracted in math class. Okay that was a lie I used to love math, until I didn’t. I feel like I’m beginning to tapper off now, slow down a little. I don’t know how I can sense this. Maybe I’ve gotten very far away from the begging. By about half an hour I suppose. I wonder how many words this is. Where I writing doesn’t have a word count. Tolstoy never had a word count, that much is obvious otherwise he might have cut back a little. Been a bit more conscious of what he was doing. But then we can never know that.

So we’re circling back to the conclusion. No good conclusions draws attention to that fact that it’s a conclusion, apart from that fact that its at the end. So maybe the conclusion should go in the middle, just to shock the reader a little bit, gives them a heads up of whats to come in the rest of the essay, like a midseason trailer or something. So these are the last sentences, so imagine sunsets or something. Is it odd that when I look at a sunset I wonder if the image itself is cliche, reality itself is marred by literature. Well it is in my head anyway. I was gonna end with that line but I instantly didn’t feel like it. Nor that one.