THIS PIECE HAS NO INTENTION OF ENDING
We have this strange feeling that realism is the best.
“I hated how sad it was.”
“I hated how it wasn’t explained.”
Is life always happy?
Is life always explained?
No. But why go to creative mediums to remember how we manage to open our eyelids each morning? Maybe we’re drawn to each story as if it won’t be like the others, that it might say something, some insight about what we’re doing and how to finish doing it the right way. The right way has become apparent. The right way is to keep going. “It’s all in the journey,” I hear. A running novel is the best because it can’t be accused of being pretentious of trying to cut you off with some “well, that’s life” piece of trivial dialogue or landscape description.
Everyone’s chasing fiction for insight on reality. Everyone’s avoiding nonfiction to save themselves from reality. The only end is the perpetual end of ‘the end.’ It has never existed. The door is always in the midst of closing, but guests keep arriving.
Even in pure fantasy there are generalizations about human nature. Everything epitomizes the human mindset. I’m convinced it’s the only form we can write. Stories of rabbits and pigs and horses and dogs always end up being political. Animals aren’t political. Our frames of reference are completely internal and bound to our species and the only solid external stimuli is that of other humans. So everything recorded from the beginning of our time till we reach exhaustion or, even more conducive to my point, self-destruction, is self-contained. Creating an end for ourselves. We are writing a human anthology, that, as with any other work, will not end definitively until complete oblivion, and this purely hypothetical state will consequently be completely void of any significance, since the significance of a void is its state of being a void. But then what happened?
Existential literature is ‘doing nothing’ literature. It’s lonely literature. It’s ‘I’m-going-to-stop-abruptly’ literature. But it’s also realistic literature, because its narrative is weaved by your own synaptic webwork. The day-to-day monotony. Quietly screaming in agony. The serpent devours its own tail through the pages, and its gag reflex brings forth vomit (the projectile projection we misconstrue to be the end) to cause more gagging.
People get angry when you tell them the end to something they haven’t read or seen. Really, the end comes easily to all of us. Our pages are numbered. Our screen time is measured down to the second. We are waiting for the end because characters are exhausting. We become them because we are them. You will never escape yourself.
The universe might implode. The universe might always expand. You might say we can(‘t) conceptualize infinity. You might say we won’t need to. What about the other dimensions? The ones we annotate, the ones that annotate us? In theory, there can be no end. In our veiled actuality, there can be no end. “Nothing can be destroyed or created.” We are embedded into the exposition. You will know no progression, let alone conclusion. If we found the end we couldn’t live. We run because we can’t see the finish, so much so that there is speculation as to whether or not there is one. So start cutting your films to the first reel, and break your pencils after the first chapter — no collection of events will prove that anything is leading to a halting anything. You’re going to demonstrate and demonstrate and utilize and utilize and expand and expand. Constantly. Variably. Exponentially. The end is near. But it’s been near for billions of years.
Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it.
