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.