Logophobia

I wish that I had the conviction that would permit me to write extensively on a subject. Perhaps I do, perhaps it is clouded by misconceptions, false perceptions, and incongruencies. Perhaps somewhere, deep within my psyche, lies the passion to preserve, the stature to stand tall, and the will to write. Yet I must continue with my verbose, but almost fully meaningless jargon. True, meaning can be applied, extrapolated, stimulated, injected, and otherwise forced onto a paragraph, but where is the true meaning? Where is the heart, that red-blooded organ that forces the writer's extensive emotions onto the paper, squeezed like frosting onto a bittersweet pastry? Certainly my writing is soulful, for what author does not impart, whether intentionally or otherwise, an abstract spirit, a noncorporeal meaning to the words that litter his or her manuscript like so many razor-sharp can lids.

Like those lids, cluttered ideas and thoughts are both detrimental and positive, a pollution of the reader's brain waves. They cut, but they cut everyone and everything they come in contact with. The concepts imparted can be used any way the critic might desire - but in the end they do only damage.

Contrariwise, when writing is full of vigor and life it is like a scalpel or a sword. The bold writer wields her weapon of choice with full knowledge of the consequences of her actions. She may dissect or dismember, demonstrating her prowess. She prowls, she is a hunter. Unfortunately, I am not her. As a confused writer, my scalpel is blunt. Desperately my patient acts as my lawyer, impressing on the jury that I intend only good, that I attempted to purify and improve his body and mind. Heedlessly they would see only the facts. Data.

"You killed a man!" they scream, and knobby fingers point as the bars slide shut over my face. But even in prison they cannot take my scalpel from me. I can hone it on the iron clad door of hardship, sharpening it on the stone walls of my cell. There I wait for the guard to bring me food. His intentions are irrelevant, for his death shall be swift and sweet. No more delicate measurements, no more fumbled attempts at improvement. A lobotomy requires no experience to enact.

I am free to roam the streets again, with a sharpened wit and a chaotic mind. Beware.