It is difficult to imagine, to know beyond this streaming.
I am writing a novel. And I must:
Get Published. Get Published. Get Published.
Or it all means nothing.
What if narrative lines are not lines but circles that intersect and bend? The fall line is never straight. I know this. Gravity twists it into ‘c’ shaped arcs and dives, creating spaces the sky fills with wind and shadow. There can never be a single, straight line. Light bends, hesitates, and encases itself in spirals.
There are currents in narrative lines, tides – spaces of lapse and expansion. Unknown depths – its efforts seep as it draws itself deeper. There are no lines – only parts of lines manipulated into shapes to mimic presence.
My language ensures my gaps. I cannot write myself to what I want to say – I can only fall around it, twisting and shifting as I spiral further, defining the dark spaces beyond me. I wonder in narratives and struggle within definitions – categories of knowledge and expression I cannot experience but that I can memorize.
I am negotiating a transfer of language – its currencies shift in the seconds between negotiations.
It’s a game – an intersecting of words and tapestries. The colors muddle in the frame. I outline their worth in questions. I negotiate beyond reason. Through it, traversing the edges before slipping through the walls on either side. I am not solid in my language. It drifts. The currents ebb against the shores the waves swallow when I decide it is night, shifting its center to another axle. The light will come from the south this time. The angle bend and twist around and through the objects they create. I know myself in my shadow.
Every vowel constitutes a ripple. The waves resonate. High echoes build in the hidden channels and gullies of my insides.
The colors shift, redefining depth and its aggregates. I connect the ripples with word is. Some are real; the others I only imagined.