The Inside and the Word
What a strange language this is that I use to forget myself. There are days when not even all the caffeine in the world is enough for me. I write to whoever may read, as if the words could find an unknown recipient, someone who understands what even I cannot decipher. This is the act of letting it out, but where is the inside? The inside is a noisy silence, a pre-art, a space full of pre-things waiting to be named. It is an organized chaos, a universe in potential, waiting to be discovered. The inside is what I invented, … Continue reading The Inside and the Word