monologue inspired by lucky.

Though Oscar Wilde once said that it is perhaps better not to put one’s worship into words, when one worships words, it’s easiest to worship with them. It’s a fine art, fine, fine art to speak without looking, to observe without understanding. Maybe I’m too too good an artist. And the erratic consciousness that accumulates is my shrine of seemingly nothingness but makes a little bit of sense when I think about it because I will remember the small things, the little things such as names and things, sounds, winks, colors, notes, letters, hair, structure, smell, scent, shapes, pattern, shiny things, and not shiny things and the little things may one day be big things and maybe I’ll collect them and try to remember everything I’ve remembered and worship them with words and phrases and sentences and punctuation marks that make pretty little lines of understanding and consciousness. Maybe we’re superficial because our thoughts are too big to be expressed correctly or maybe we’re all artists and we’re undercover in this world because we’re here to make something bigger and more wonderful from it. But maybe we just speak and talk and make lots of sentences a lot that may or may not make sense. But when they do, it’s poetry. When they don’t, sometimes it’s still poetry. And our words are bundled in time but we don’t know where time is or what it is or where it goes, but that it goes and we place our blame on it. But maybe it’s hidden from us and we make numbers because we are frustrated because we don’t know what they mean so we make lots more of them and then numbers and numbers but we still don’t feel closer to anything but science and science may or may not be true. Words are real, and time may or may not be. We can go on a quest for it. Perhaps it is the forbidden fruit but we should destroy all the numbers and try to feel it instead. Worship the world. And make words and phrases and sentences and punctuation marks and make everything we say pretty or not pretty and poetry or not poetry. Concrete things keep us up at night: the dripping sink or nose or the monster, but the feelings and things we say and write keep us up always and conscious of things always and we feel and feel until we feel no more and we die but everyone else feels for us. The modern artist sees imperfection and beats it and attacks it in abstract ways to make it beautiful or understandable, with the first impulse to destroy and the second to re-create. This may or may not be true. It gets old, but we are old souls.