So Many Questions

My left hand rests on the thin stem of the wide-lipped wine glass containing a comfortable amount of 2014 Chianti Classico; the fingers of my right hand stretch across the hard keyboard, the clicks and chinks of which ooze palpably throughout my small Austrian room transforming me into the screenwriter that Ewan McGregor plays in Moulin Rouge. 1940’s crime and noir jazz shyly slinks into my mind, shrouding me in a veil of husky inspiration, a desperation and urgency for the words that are welling up in my mind to relieve themselves in Courier New 12pt font.

I have no desire to distinguish between paragraphs; to hit the enter key is an almost shame, splitting up these words that belong to no one but themselves, hacking through flow to craft categories of significance that don’t exist until vomited onto paper.

I do not buy into…talent…when it comes to writing. I believe in those who believe they were selected to be writers and those who believe they have a different art form. We give ourselves too great a significance when it comes to art; we are the vehicle for the creative genius but we do not exist as the genius ourselves.

Otherwise, how could we stand such pressure? Such pressure of top-notch performance every time we attempt our art? No. It cannot be up to us.

Perhaps it’s the Chianti. Perhaps it’s the copy of John Steinbeck’s East of Eden that rests definitively upon it’s front cover, the contents of I have finally, wholly completed reading. Such a read prompts such a mental probing of humanity as to render the reader a different, more aware individual. Aware of the complexities of human nature.

It’s a near stream of consciousness. These thoughts that are categorizing themselves into paragraphs against their own will. My fingers long to forgo punctuation; to favor the endless rambling sentences that echo the masterpieces of Joyce. Why subdivide something that doesn’t exist in divisions, that is wholly connected and formulated. Why add exclamation and question marks to words and sentences that long to express themselves with complete detachment of human interference?

I don’t think in punctuation; why write in such?

One might call what happens in my mind overthinking but I treat that much as I treat over-exaggeration. It doesn’t exist until we give it existence and then classify it as something negative.

How can you over exaggerate.

The slow, rhythmic saxophone yields to a muted trumpet. The far left candle flickers out, the wax rebels and melts onto the black wick.

Why does aesthetic matter so much? Why is it so vital to be immersed in a persona? Is that inauthenticity? Is that charade? Why must I snuggle my way into my thick patagonia hoodie and sit cross legged upon my black swivel desk chair, wine or a strong cup of tea towards one side and jazz from the front? Why is the candle so indicative of my writing?

Am I even allowed to publish this? To showcase such an intimate portrait of my mind? That the aesthetic “stream of consciousness” is the king of my thoughts? In one day I have so many questions over everything I encounter that my fingers and thumbs would most certainly demand to be amputated by how much googling I would have to do in order to figure out the answers to all of my questions.

If we’re all striving to be so individual, how is it so comforting to discuss what we have in common?

No man is an island. But then what have we marooned ourselves upon?

I meant to write about Budapest, the magical city to which we traveled last weekend in order to rekindle a love of the Hungarians that graced my life this past semester. To write about our rainy, cafe adventures. Or perhaps our lack of sleeping. Or the beauty and rawness of sublime unyielding friendship.

But, as I have mentioned before; I get to select the tea that I drink and the jazz music that I listen to. Nothing more.

It’s not a lack of control. It’s the presence of acceptance.

Naw, that’s simply me pretending like I have control.

The trombone of Alex North gives way to the smooth, finger-snapping Warren Barker Orchestra. The middle candle wax topples into the wick, extinguishing the second flame; the rightmost candle dangerously close to following suit.

The flickering green light that lights the stairwell adjacent to my window finally becomes more and more delayed; metaphorically indicative of my late-night state of mind.

Away I go.

Peace and Blessings,

Josie

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