To my left are words, gathered across some small sheets of paper, ready to never be seen again. I have written tons of notes and phrases, a majority of which will never be read shortly after being written. Maybe it’s for the best, but it almost seems like a waste. A waste of space, a waste of ink, a waste of time. But, perhaps it helps. Some phrases enter, some images and I have to write them down, make sense of them, puzzle pieces with no real landscape in mind.
Let’s look at some:
Cosmic glow of dullened daffodils
Walking away from an idea
What triggers a fish
Where the background begets
Spares into dreamlike death
OK, maybe it’s best that my notes are never seen, by myself and others. Maybe a couple of the words will find their place in a more refined thing. But it’s unlikely. When I’m done with this pad of paper it will be piled with the others. Because, as much as I tell myself that they might be useful “one day,” I can’t revisit anything I’ve written in the past and stored away. It’s like looking at an embarrassing photo of yourself when you were a child.
Imagine being a tree sliced-down and turned to unseen waste. Sometimes I walk around and wonder, “do I really need to be here?” It’s the wrong way to think of one’s self, or anyone else. We are purposeless beings. We are not tools, but we still think ourselves as such. If we aren’t productive or useful or constantly doing something to contribute then we are a waste. We don’t need to be here. Expending more resources. That’s the society we’ve built.
We make up jobs. People, who would otherwise be useless, go on social media sites to sell products no one wants or needs. Not adding anything, sometimes making things worse. But people need jobs. The economy needs to pump and circulate.
But I really don’t need to be here. And neither do these words. Perhaps they helped in some way, days before, but they won’t be built into value anytime soon. Maybe it’s okay. Maybe it doesn’t need to be.
Written for Stream of Consciousness Saturday.