I want to live my life in a eternal hypergraphia. I want the entirety of my being to be words, not images. I want to be made up of fractals of letters, That all languages would alphabetize and disassemble to form me. I want to touch paper and have ink spread like veins as I leave novels of thought and consequentially pieces of my person literally behind. I want new thoughts to replace those which I have lost but never feel ashamed of that which has been me before this moment. Each day I am new, new cells are on my body, they have formed and in their bright existence I am given a sheet of paper in each. A place in which to tell the story of my memory and of that which can not happen. But when i awaken, I don't think about this newness. I don't understand my clean slate. I can delete things from my message box, but I cannot delete features of my life. It is in some way this struggle, that really makes us new. This knowing that what there will always be is, but not accepting it. The resistance of new cells, their creation past the primary and scientific is in and of its self a full blown war against past. Why would we create new, if the old always was? We wouldn't.
So I will write and type and ooze onto your screen and these notebooks and receipts. I will be and I will be accepting of the fact that I may not like what I have to say 10 years from now. I am, and what purpose do I serve as a creature of creation if I refuse the construction of that which I was born to create. I realize my newness, my birthing in the night of microscopic headway against that which we allow to pul ourselves down, and it is from this standpoint, all the language shall come.