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literature

RetArt

A Rampant Vagitarian
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#1
(I am sorry about the language, english is not my native tongue. Try to look beside the akward typing. Also sorry females, about the masculine form used :) )
enjoy







I think I am losing the last of what is left of my sanity. See, I have this compulsive need to collect letters. The same letters, over and over again, in different order. Long lists of letters, small lists of letters, meaningful letters, emotional letters.. Letters in every thinkable order, creating words. Little stains of ink in a certain order, building bridges to others alike. The deepest darkest secrets of the human mind lay there, concretely in front of me. Sentences, words, letters, these I wish to collect to the dark, smelly basement of my mind.

You see, literacy is artificial Godness. Writer has the capability to create whoever he likes, capability to control the characters actions, emotions and doings. Capability to end a life at will. To the characters - writer is God. He cant be compared to the christian God, Zeus, Vishnu or the like. This God is drunk over his Godness. While balancing on the string of insanity and geniosity he is everything but stable and just. He sees his possibility to do what every he wishes and for a moment retards in to a child. Omnipotency. And so he begins to write. He writes day and night, day after day. Silently he smiles to his ingeniosity, and puts the characters to the wildest, most bizarre situations, only because he can. He thinks he is alike with Dostojevski, Goethe, Gogol, Homeros or Hesse. For years he writes, he polishes every word to near perfection, goes over every sentence again and again. He, as God, creates perfect world. And to every single character he puts a little bit of himself, writing a fictive, multiperson autobiography. Inside the hundreds of characters, behind every sentence, under every morphem can be found the writer. Small, meaningless writer laying naked on the floor, curled up to a fetus-position, crying. here is your almighty God, here is the maker of you. A God, who is perfectly aware of his incompetence, aware that he can never be what he tries to show in his writings. He tries not to show his incompetece by covering it up under all the little linguistic nyances. Inside he knows he has created a weak god. He knows he is a weak God. He knows there is no God.

These bits of godness I collect. Looking for truths, new views, explanations, humanity. I read to understand. I wish to find myself in every single one of those millions of stories, I want to again learn things I know. I want to understand the world. I am willing of going through millions of stories, cutting them to pieces, exploring them, minimazing them, and from the bottom of every text finding that same autistic God, curled up on the floor, screaming. God that knows he does not exist.

I also know that that is excactly where my search will end. On the floor, naked, beside that autistic God, sitting in lotus-position, rocking back and forth, chanting like a gregorian monk. After absorbing every detail, every piece of information I notice that I know everything and yet - nothing.
 

dustinzgirl

Banned - What an Asshat!
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#2
RetArt said:
(I am sorry about the language, english is not my native tongue. Try to look beside the akward typing. Also sorry females, about the masculine form used :) )
enjoy

I also know that that is excactly where my search will end. On the floor, naked, beside that autistic God, sitting in lotus-position, rocking back and forth, chanting like a gregorian monk. After absorbing every detail, every piece of information I notice that I know everything and yet - nothing.
NO problem about the language, its fine. Some of the beginning paragraphs are kind of oddly worded, but I have to say that this last paragraph, just fucking kicks ass. I love it.
 

RetArt

A Rampant Vagitarian
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#3
Why, thank you.

I did this to practice, I had not been writing anything in three years :) Good to know I still got it, at least some of it.