I am not a writer. You are not a reader. But together, with these words and your eyes and my fingeres, we become both. Master and servant, both slaves to the word. For me, I must lay them out like railroad ties, building a cohesive message out of twenty seven plus symbols (including punctuation). For you, the unbeknowst subject to my craft , there is only resolution. You must find meaning from this, find plot points and dot them together and try and figure out what type of picture I am verbally painting for you. Is it a color by number? A black velvet painting of Elvis or a tiger? God forbid, a Nagel?
This story is not actually a story, it's a jumble of letters and symbols put together by me, and remember I am not a writer. These words will make some type of structure that will have meaning to you once you see it, but remember, you are not a reader. Together we will make a sense out of this, we will find resolution. A story generally begins with an introduction of characters and a fundemental laying of plot structure, The characters in this story are a person sitting in front of a computer, pressing fingers to keys, strking words onto a monitor with a flicker of a cursor, and hoping they will find a home in somone's mind, and the unbeknownst reader. Maybe even you, with your eyes and mind absorbing what my eyes and mind and fingers have delivered to you.
There is a funny taste in our mouths at the same time, but you do not know this. We are connected and feel the same sensations that these words deliver, but you are not aware of it. Not yet. We both wonder if this is actually a story or just a jumble of words, or are those both the same things? A bird tweets and there is a piano type noise coming from a movie playing in another room of the houses we occupy. And what are houses? Coffins for the living or shelter from other aspects of the lives we pretend to live? Death is just puberty of the soul and we are just children in a playground without fences to keep us from straying into danger. The bird is no longer tweeting and the piano has been replaced with the drone of romantic comedy monologues. It sounds like something you might have said once but just as you thought this, a comment came to mind. Leave the comment.
This story is not actually a story, it's a jumble of letters and symbols put together by me, and remember I am not a writer. These words will make some type of structure that will have meaning to you once you see it, but remember, you are not a reader. Together we will make a sense out of this, we will find resolution. A story generally begins with an introduction of characters and a fundemental laying of plot structure, The characters in this story are a person sitting in front of a computer, pressing fingers to keys, strking words onto a monitor with a flicker of a cursor, and hoping they will find a home in somone's mind, and the unbeknownst reader. Maybe even you, with your eyes and mind absorbing what my eyes and mind and fingers have delivered to you.
There is a funny taste in our mouths at the same time, but you do not know this. We are connected and feel the same sensations that these words deliver, but you are not aware of it. Not yet. We both wonder if this is actually a story or just a jumble of words, or are those both the same things? A bird tweets and there is a piano type noise coming from a movie playing in another room of the houses we occupy. And what are houses? Coffins for the living or shelter from other aspects of the lives we pretend to live? Death is just puberty of the soul and we are just children in a playground without fences to keep us from straying into danger. The bird is no longer tweeting and the piano has been replaced with the drone of romantic comedy monologues. It sounds like something you might have said once but just as you thought this, a comment came to mind. Leave the comment.
VIEW 3 of 3 COMMENTS
I think I'm coming by your work tomorrow to buy some coffee. I'll let you ride my moped if you can get a break. See ya.