I typically write to empty space. I send my words out into space, speak to the interstices. Like a teapot, I let my steam out, not knowing or caring where it goes. It just goes…
There are no readers out there. My words resonate with no one. They strike a chord in no heart. I write to an empty universe…and like it.
In the world of hooks, of promotions and reader statistics, there are none I want to reach. In this superficial world, described at sixth-grade reading level, there are none to whom I would speak. No kindred spirits nor soulmates await my words here.
For in this barbaric, post-apocalyptic world, people do not want to hear the things of which I speak; their ‘like’ buttons are reserved for words on the latest gadget, or rapper, or TV show. That is fine by me.
I just write. I simply let it out. To share a little secret, I am glad I have no commenters clogging my posts, using them as soapboxes for their ill-considered prejudices and biases. It would be terrible to host the compendium of acerbic comments, diatribes, and vitriolic name-calling that passes for dialog and debate these days.
I can guess what people want to hear by what they tell me…the (hopelessly boring) plot to an idiotic movie (told in excruciating detail), their pet’s latest antics, a funny post on Facebook, or reliving recent sports events. The more subtle tell me the secrets of their souls, share the depths of their hearts…using the words of Rumi or Rilke.
I am not interested…nor are they in what I have to say. I like it that way.
I used to think I would like to reach just one reader, that I’d dig finding one person I could read and resonate with. Of course, I always loved mythical beings…unicorns, a twin flame heart, God, and One Reader. Just because I dig them doesn’t mean I expect them to materialize out of this Tide-cleansed, gas-powered, food-gobbling, TV-watching world I find myself in.
I am not Generation Y.
I am not Twittering my heart out to an uncaring world…I tweet to the Void instead.
…and like it.
The One Reader I hoped for was just a desire…to be heard, to feel connected, to reach someone. It’s a relief to know that desire has been shown to be what it is…baseless desire, a child crying out in the wilderness.
In my isolation I find freedom. In my disconnection, I find peace.
In throwing these words out to an unhearing, uncaring universe, I find relief.
That is enough for me. See, I discover I already have one reader…the me in the present, reading the words of the past me. I connect to myself, the one person I can hope to connect to. I share these words with my future self, who recognizes those extemporaneous words as fleeting, passing clouds of thought.
Meaningless…except in the release they provide.
Useless…albeit in the way they provide a glimpse into the ever-changing being I call me.
Hopelessly egoic…barring the fact that a little bit of ego is sometimes useful…if for nothing else, for amusement.
I love to write…to no one. I am pen-pals with the Void.