Reasons beside the point

I hate this cardboard colored journal. I hate how it binds me to chronological order, to affected clarity, to the truth. I hate how the words I write are permanent and immutable. I hate what this journal represents, how it pressures me, that it always leaves me unsatisfied.

I resolve to write severely. I want to write with precision, to compose with a hammer, to strike with my fists while my feet swirl and dance. I want to lay words like bricks. I want simple, clear, sparse.

But my resolve has weighed me down. Simplicity has become overwhelming. I myself have gone blind to the imagined greatness I pursue, and must flail and grope desperately at what lays right before me. Just as this diary has become a thing of ugliness, so has my voice become muddled and confused.

I am newly crippled, angry at the world, and must learn to walk again. I am the scribble of a ball point pen run dry. I am the furious rubbing of clammy hands. I am the dial of a radiator, seeping cold into the room. I have no numbers and there is no limit to the revolutions I can be turned.

Be wary: I am restless, and I stir. Be wary of the static energy I dispense.

My ear bleeds before I go to sleep. I look at the blood on my finger and thumb. I touch my ear again, watch the blood dry. I turn off the light, lay my head on the pillow, fall fast asleep.

I wake up. The day is gray and overcast. It rains. I move around the apartment. The floors are cluttered with books, dirty dishes, clothes both clean and dirty, ashtrays, pieces of paper (my favorite). There is music.

I read, then get up. I lie back down again on the bed, open my book, and read some more. Sometimes I write. Right now I write. I am writing a book, or so Elexa tells people. I deny it: “She just says that.” But it is a good reason to have come to Copenhagen. I have no other reason. That, too, is a good reason. To have come for no purpose at all. Purposes and reasons are always incidental in relation to outcomes. This is why I have come: to escape the constraints of apparent cause and effect; to make to myself perfectly clear the superfluidity of circumstance.

My reasons, of course, are beside the point.

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