Gabriella P Gasparini
Why we write?
Madness. Utter madness. Mad are those who keep all the words and don’t write. Egoistic. Greedy. Keeping all those little serifs, commas and unfulfilled full stops to themselves. Crowded. CROWDED. Overcrowded minds full of nonsensical sentences spurted out through their vocal chords rather than diligently through paper. Who. ?. Who do they think they are? Certainly not like me. Probably a different species altogether. They’re probably looking at me now, scribbling on paper, frantically searching for words I no longer hold in my mind for they have been evicted onto paper so many times. Yes, they’re looking at me and their overwritten brain tells them look! She’s mad. She can’t sit still. She bites her nails. She’s agitated. Look at those 27 tabs open on her laptop. See those open books scattered aimlessly around her? Just stop. And admire all those articles she’s got on her desk piled up like rubbish. And what about all those torn notes with hieroglyphical markings?
Madness. Utter madness. Those writers. Speaking in third person. Constantly cross-referencing a memory lost within the clear vastness of her mind with that talk she attended three weeks ago and then again with that book she read last year. Grams and grams of literary lines as fat as never ending sentences keep her up at night. And thoughts, thoughts that spray out of her meninges in the same way the neighbours cats sprays my garden marking his page. Writing: it’s regurgitation. Like a swallow to her newborn baby notebook. It’s indigestion, that gravy that keeps oozing out of all the o’s and a’s. It’s alcohol poisoning from all the slurred lower case i’s I forget to capitalise. It’s a convalescent form of catharsis albeit one that requires no hospital bed, no treatment, no prognosis just something to write on.
Oh, what does this even mean to you? Everything and nothing to the unwritten mind. And you know which species you belong to. You’re not mad, my dear writer. You’re just empty. And you don’t need a psychoanalyst to remind you of your emptiness. Empty. . Empty, because you externalise everything that’s inside you. The happiness. The sorrow. The beauty. The fear. And them? They keep everything inside religiously. Constrained, overcrowded one letter, one thought one meaning over the other. Overwritten. Full to the brim. They look at us and pity us for being empty inside. They? They think this emptiness means nothing! What does nothingness even mean? They… (chuckles) Don’t they realise that it is from nothingness that the whole wide universe came to be?
Now… now… who’s the mad one now?