It’s something that has been puzzling me for years now, and I’m probably continuously fooling myself into sitting here, in status quo. My writing lacks clarity because I lack clarity, probably because I’ve never reached a state of enlightenment or spiritual wholeness. But in some ways it doesn’t even matter to my writing, only to my own happiness. Bathes and Foucault were right; authors don’t exist, there is only language and readers. I can never capture the buzz inside my head clearly and communicate it to another person, because another person will have a different buzz inside their head and pick up my words in a different way to how I set them out. A story is a collection of different parts of a culture; it is a reflective thing because language is a reflective thing, even more so than music and art. Music can relate something purer I think, something that doesn’t need to be translated into words, something that stirs the soul without needing logic. So I always worry that I am too reflective, my words unable to capture what is in my soul. Truth is, it doesn’t matter how enlightened I am, my words will still be hollow, they will still be translated in so many different ways by so many different people. Words must be translated always, they speak to the head and the head has to translate it so the heart can understand it. The heart can read music, and (to an extent) art, without the brain getting involved. That’s just the way it is. That’s why I love music so much. But I’ve got to stay happy as a person, and there’s certain ways of doing that, and Herman Hesse knows it, and now I know it. I just have to get on and do it.
I am overthinking things now, and I feel unwell so this post may seem difficult to read. Time for me to go and celebrate my mother’s birthday and stop thinking so much about stuff that doesn’t even matter at all. Happy birthday mum. I hope you enjoy reading the story I wrote for you, even if you reading it kills me a little bit. That’s okay. That’s my job.