Dear Future Clara,
What even is this but a motley mismanagement of words. My
dear, my dear. You write without knowing where the words are going, only that
it’s been too long since you’ve created anything and the overwhelming urge to
vomit words on a page must be satisfied. Let there be light. Let there be
madness.Let there be.
And you scan the paragraph you just wrote, and it strikes
you how pretentious you sound, but you keep writing anyway because no one will
ever read this but you and maybe two people and a super-advanced NYC subway rat on the internet, and let’s be honest—your future self could use a laugh.
In the distant future when you somehow learn to stop taking yourself too
seriously, you will appreciate this mindless verbiage and you will be glad you
took the time to do something pointless and stupid and time-consuming. At least
I hope you will.
Prose. Prose is the problem because you feel like you have
to be candid and honest with yourself when you write in prose. Ambiguous
fragments strung together into an indecipherable poem? The angst. The power. The presence. But
prose demands substance as well as style, and it makes it harder to disguise a
lack of either. So in typical you-fashion, you get around the problem of prose
by hiding behind metaphors that take on a life of their own, writing in slow
downward spirals that never quite hit rock-bottom. Cue self-referential
example. How meta.
Were you making a point in any of this?
You will find your own voice as a writer. Eventually, you
will stop having to hide behind ambiguity and purple prose. Your words will be
a finely tempered steel blade, cutting to the heart of the matter with clean
precision. You’ll stop dithering. You’ll stop second-guessing. You’ll stop
toning yourself down on the page.You'll stop hyping yourself up on the page. Halfway between the Slump and the Mania, you will flow on the page, and your words will be made of breath and blood and bone.
But until then, you find refuge behind a wall of words, and
you succumb to the need to write angsty poetry as is your birthright as a
teenager because for the next almost-two-months, that’s still true.
Eyelids drooping
A slight tremor in
the fingers
Betrays the weariness
of nights spent awake till the early hours of the morning
A silent vigil spent
reading and re-reading
Regrets already
forming but realization delayed
Was it worth it all?
Of course it was, for
the time being
Let tomorrow worry
about itself, no need to chase it down
Sufficient for the
day is its own trouble
That was terrible. You actually hate that, at least in the
moment. Maybe it’ll grow on you, and maybe if it does that will simply confirm
your worst suspicions about your lack of taste. Who’s to say?
But pointlessness for its own sake, though it does have its
charms, tends to get old after a while. And you’re bored right now of the
immense pointlessness of this first letter because you had grand fantasies of
its being a profound exercise in self-reflection and instead it is a steaming
pile of garbage wrapped up in pretty language. Ahahahahahahahahahahaha the
idiocy of it all.
More to come later.
Much love,
Past Clara
