Rumination

I wonder if failing to tell the difference between reality and illusions is ignorance or a resolution of inner dichotomies. My inability to conclude leaves me with the half-truth. Sometimes I find that I'm awfully good at mimicking. I watch my hands lurch across the keyboard, creating an imitation of myself and a forgery of the world around me. Then I cringe at my poor translation of events. Sometimes I'm filled with chagrin, but I keep writing anyway 'cos there's a mad scribe in me at full throttle. Seized by some despotic passion or perhaps rage, I continue in spite of myself. The pen administers the purge. Everyone understands the exorcism of writing. Often I find myself the priest of my own confession, appropriating the extent of self-flagellation - castigating myself for what I meant to say but could not say, suffering the evasive quality of words, the insufficiencies of language, the horrendous web of linguistics. Then the resort to metaphors/ literary tropes, the interpretative potential, the exploitation of ambiguity and abstraction, and finally the failure to distinguish between fact and fiction. And the imperishable question if it's a failure worthwhile.