Of Polyester

I was starting to write on that new short story I was thinking about just the other day. I thought I should seriously get started with writing a bit, maybe even have a few parallel works at the same time that I can fiddle with. While I had already begun a little - as in the dialogue that I published last week - I never intended that to be a serious part of the story, more than a style guideline.

So, anyway, I was typing this thing, getting along quite fine, and I struck upon a couple of poetic sentences. Now, I intended this short story from the very start to be less of a moral - as in Raison d'Être, which you of course haven't read, but that doesn't matter - and be more of a discussion, just as much to myself as to the world at large. Now, course, that's the kink, I don't expect very many people to ever read this thing, which is why I can direct it more to me than to anybody else.

However, I found myself writing a whole load of garbage, actually. In order to tie the entire thing together, I gently placed a few sentences here and there, sprinkled them in between the lines; and suddenly, upon reading what I just wrote a bit, I found a line of garbage. Look at this, for instance

"There will always be stillness. Either in the mind, or outside of it. Never are the two combined. Perhaps these calm places, these quiet, white, silent places, are made solely to inspire chaos of mind."

Now when I read this, I just said to myself outright, what the bloody hell is that? Where did that come from? I must have straight grabbed it out of thin air as I was typing along. I mean, it's not a bad sentence per se, but I can't have that in there. It's not like it's something I believe, something I think or thought of outside of writing this particular piece.

I can't write things that I do not agree with, or believe. That is outright wrong. I can do it to a certain extent when it comes to trivial things, of course, or when I'm depicting someone else. But I cannot write a text, from my own mind, with blatant deviations from this pattern of thought.

Whether or not I will omit these lines is still something I'm considering. I am still pondering their meaning for the story as a whole. I have so far casually referred to this concept later on in the text, and whether this will actually mean something for the story is yet to be seen. I see this short story, again, as a discussion, not a definite article - as such, it's an open script, a tabula rasa. Whatever I write is not necessarily truth, but it can very well be a valuable addition to the final product. As such I am still discussing, still conferring, with myself on what I mean to say. What I mean to transmit, to convey. Until that is settled, I know nothing.