About the meaning and making of texts.
Every ideal text has a succinct introduction. This text is primarily about texts. Metalinguistics! This introduction is about introductions in a text, which is the theme of my own. Meta get’s boring really quickly. I’ve now acknowledged meta twice in a very brief span of time making meta further enhanced into your mind. You can often tell how much faith one has in their own story just by looking at when do they stop acknowledging meta. It’s a vicious cycle. And it is boring. The fun of it is sadistic: to watch an author tread on the thin line between redundance and mockery; satire. Metalinguistics is no man’s land. The wild west of textual coherence. The pit of doom in which words we care for will fall.
The fact is that texts are simple. If you disagree with me I’ll show you a quick guide on how to make a text. You think, speak, listen, write, read, think and rewrite. You put words together when caring to make a sentence. Sentences express ideas which are the reason why you actually make texts.
It is simple. So simple that one cannot help but question why the hell does meta exist? It’s not on my guide. It just makes everything complicated. It was born a bastard. An unwanted teardrop in our coffee filter. Coffee still has the same value, the same warmth and calm taste that makes us relaxed. Now we feel as we’ll drink sorrow. We take a sip and regrets are on their way. Some just give up on it but others do try to drink a little bit more and get used to the taste. We love coffee. We now hate drinking it.
Meta. It exists because texts are not to be ruled. Dumb people often put good words together. They are still dumb people. Geniuses will use stupid words and be acclaimed. They are still geniuses. That’s why my guide doesn’t work! Silly me. It was made for everyone. Texts are also available to everyone, yes. But are made by each one. You now see my belief: everyone finds their own way with words.
I’ll now talk about my own way with words but before that let me apologize. I’m sorry. My last paragraph was obvious and almost a mockery. Please stay. Thank you. I love you. It takes a while to know yourself and some never do so how did I? Honestly I’m not even sure I did but I just noticed some things about myself. Taking a space between your own eyes and your mind. Actually noticing what you are. Your ticks, loves, hates, ways and etceteras. And I eventually noticed that I talk. A lot. With myself. During my quiet talks I’m always walking to one side of the room to the other. I think, look at the ground, walk, notice the flowers and the paintings on the wall, the reflections on the mirror and the fact that the wall is now in front of me therefore I need to turn and walk the other way. So on and so forth. “On” being stretches of hours and “forth” being my living room, both extents of it. During my quiet talks I interrupt myself more than any other could. You can notice that on the start of this text. Where I talk about texts. Ha!
When I noticed that I just snapped. I couldn’t spend another single second writing texts my mind didn’t truly come up with. Words are the best possible way to lie endlessly but those lies? They weren’t in my favor. They would hold up against me in my internal epiphany court. They’d name names. Give examples. They would be on the side of the noise. They would make me be honest with myself. So I now stick to my own lies. They are my friend. Their friend too, is me.
For whatever economic system we have I am sure that one will read this. Maybe just one. Enough it is. Someone will always hear me. Someone, but for god’s sake, not me.
And so I stand here playing table tennis with my static wall. You can picture yourself being the wall. The situation doesn’t change for me because it goes as it always does. The ball comes and I hit it. It bounces back and it all repeats. In my mind I don’t let the ball drop but that’s just my way of looking at it.
This specific text is all about setting the table, building the wall, feeling the weight of the ball. Every period is a swing. Every swing a stop. And so my voice echoes out through the collision of words and involuntary saccades. Every swing is a stop. Every period is a swing.
This is how I free myself from all the noise. Wording it all. It leaves me and reaches something; someone. Maybe the wall. And you are free to picture yourself as the wall. It doesn’t change the picture to me. Poetic? Well you didn’t read the first draft of a text on this subject. But it did had a single good one-liner that defines the basic of it all and concludes whatever thoughts I’ve gotten rid of in all of the words before this one:
Here lies my study on the topic of “words”: useful, funny, enough.