not of this time

The internet is killing writers. The death of art comes as a stagnation of unique expression, as a homogenization, each the same as the next, as souls borrowed, though only the scarry skin worn, the words and format, popular to a given time, fashionable and faddish, and all too familiar. Death comes– when writing is no longer writing, no longer a voice of one’s own, no longer a singular soul’s symphony, nor its autorequiem. Death comes– of this prevalent mimicry, an entire generation of writers, stillborn, that which could have been, but is not.

I’ve left those places where most words haven’t enough honesty to feed my desire to know another, often penned hastily, and primarily, if not only, for fawning accolades, left behind those places where maidens swoon, falling headfirst into the tall emptiness, those places where gods are made, dutifully marketed, though where divinity is a dimensional notion, its blouse low, its hem raised upon its thigh, as is brilliance, tossed about promiscuously. No one will believe me, of course, of this death, though the corpses lay piled and the Carrion Crows peck the grayed fetuses, not until we’ve noticed collectively, that there is nothing gifted of us, or to us, that the ache has not been sated, that it remains, its murmurs echoing within the stone sarcophagus. The great communion, that promise of hope, has proven itself mythical.

As is the hope for being understood, in this time, another wish, deceased. Fickle is our love for one another’s essence, slight and frail our intrigue, the hunger to know another ethereally, quieted, tho a writer can be fully understood only in the totality, every word connected to another word or phrase once written, or one yet to be. Here, in this twitch-and-tremble time, where the next destination is only a Pavlovian click away, none are ever known, thoughts never lingered upon, nor depths explored. Here, where recognition comes through reciprocation, and through duplication, nothing genuine exists anymore. There is no truth; there is no honesty, and they are not synonymous.

Though I write for whomever may find something sacred within, and if so graced, to give a voice to and for those silenced, I also know that I write for someone yet unknown, perhaps a person, or persons, who shall be born, and who shall live, long after the last poem has been written, after the final prose is penned, perhaps for a soul a hundred years from now, after technology has consumed itself into its own swirling blackness, perhaps when we’ve learned again to love another mind, without haste’s dismissiveness, perhaps for and to a spirit visiting from an era when words were written in the heart’s crimson, and their honey and brimstone coveted within amber-flicker solitude. I am in this time, but I am not of this time; I’ve known this one truth, since a boy, while all others have become revealed as dissemblance, or as fool’s wishfulness, dust blown, in Autumn’s tawdry winds. In this regard, writing remains both, hope’s brick-alley whispers, and its snow-mountain yawps, and yes, its sea-worn green-bottle epistles.

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13 thoughts on “not of this time”

  1. Interesting, Eric. I feel that WP has expanded my writing. The interactions and duets have helped push me in new directions.
    Yes, I’ve fallen for the accolades at times. Can’t lie about that. Yet, that very thing has also helped to push me higher, still.
    I guess I feel the opposite.

    1. I respect that, Tiffany. Specifically, I’d been referring to Instagram and some other social media venues. While had some similarities in that regard, it’d been less so, and I left simply to own my writing on my own domain.

      1. And ones trying their hand at writing, it’s very hard to find your own voice amongst the noise. Just to write for writings sake…..

        1. I’ve come to believe that writing, itself, is actually antisocial behavior. Something changes when the audience is known. A post like this is bound to generate differing thoughts and opinions, that’s natural, but there are also many layers to the piece. I always appreciate your comments.

          1. I do miss you on wordpress. That venue is an easier format for me (an add’r) to interact with others and keep track of posts but I do understand. And I guess I have a different viewpoint than you regarding this article. However, the thing that most shines here is the thing I admire about writers, that no nonsense vulnerable write that will tell it as it is to be told from the heart of the writer. So in that regard, bravo friend 🙂 Hope to catch you soon~

            1. Miss your posts as well, Tammy. I still follow everyone I used to follow, but I haven’t had time to keep up regularly. I appreciate the kind words, and I respect that we have different perspectives on it. And, of course, we do 🙂 The larger part of writing is having one’s own thoughts. I promise to visit soon and see what you’ve been to.

  2. Time is a fertile but slippery soil. We plant seeds. We wait and see what develops…

    Sometimes those seeds blossom into something that reveals meaning and context in the past. Sometimes those seeds grow into something akin to prophecy. The fact that they were planted now, in authentic, honest, real moments is the miracle behind writing at all. For how would we know which direction time is moving today without that reference?

    And how would we recognize when someone succeeded in touching our souls, were it not for the countless many who slither past unnoticed?

    Just my thoughts…

    But I admit to missing you as well, being one of those “swooning maidens” fawning over you… 😉

    (Not really! I haven’t been a “maiden” in decades!)

  3. But, seriously…

    I think the greatest “tragedy” of internet publishing is the tendency to hit the publish button too soon. Like you, I could re-work a piece endlessly, looking for the end result I desire. But in the world of blogging, you need fresh content to keep your “followers” intrigued. And so I am guilty of zipping something off before work, just to get it out there, and later realizing, it wasn’t truly done…

    But then, I’ve also hand written 600+ page manuscripts that have been read by less than a handful of people. And those pieces have been worked to death!

    But like the wire jewelry I make, a certain amount of “working” is necessary to strengthening and stiffening the wire, but too much working can weaken it…

    I guess the question is, who are you writing to/for? Diaries and journals are perfect for writing to/for yourself, but if your Muse calls you to share with others, some compromise must be made. You must be willing to let go of it, even if later you wished you had changed a thing or two…

    But I know that there are real writers out here in internet land, if I but open my eyes and heart and truly read what they write. They may be few and far apart, but they exist…

    That is, after all, how I “met” you… 🙂
    (And there I go swooning again! Gotta go…)

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