Some people make writing look so sexy, especially when advertising their tortured-poet-personas online. But writing, when you’re in the trenches of duty, when you’re watching golden hours slip by, when you’re awaiting a dreaded phone call, is nothing more than one pained hour of resistance after another. It goes against every structure of obligation. It’s rarely sitting in a coffee shop, classics stacked on the table, a small latte in a decorated saucer, aesthetics hand-picked, and a backdrop of jazz. More often than not, it happens on a dying laptop, in stiff workwear, on the sawdust-covered floor, at 12pm, sleep deprived, Red bull in hand, hoping the boss won’t look your way for five minutes, and wishing your face was like a supermodel’s. You watch the bin lorry drive by and wonder if you remembered to take out the waste. You could’ve used the carrot shavings for your letters, or the eggshells for new flooring.
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The visual is a shallow product. The product is a character, and the character is a friend you don’t want around. It’s the friend that turns up at your house with seventeen business ideas, no money, and a hundred unfinished projects. He provides momentary inspiration without any substance. The substance is what you yourself must commit to forging. The product should not be this character, but the words you’re left with after the fire.
Reality is ugly. Do you think there’s romance in saving a human life? Maybe you do, in which case – good. I think so too, but I never say this out loud because it’s easy to forget what resuscitation looks like. It’s romantic in its horror, like your writing process at 12pm – not like your poet’s curated Instagram story. It’s easy to forget the gravel in real guts, the grit in real teeth. You can’t build a sandcastle without digging a hole. There’s no romance. Unless you find romance in sacrifice, which would make you religious. I won’t tell you how I see it. Perception is not equivalent to truth, and whoever trusts it with their life, is a fool.
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I am green on this earth I’ve realised. At 15, I was wise. At 25, I know absolutely nothing about life. But that’s okay, because I can’t wait to discover something. I reckon at 50, I’ll be even more of a fool. A true newborn on this earth. When I’m born again, I might bring this wisdom, but I’m not sure. I can’t escape religiosity however I twist and turn. This is probably what makes us human in the first place, but I’m not so sure of that either. It doesn’t matter. We can probably allow ourselves to be wild despite it.