In using the written word as my primary instrument for expression, and using it again and again exhaustively, I fear that I’ve realized something that I have longed denied, the written word by itself is limited in scope. How then can we express ourselves?
What have I used the written word for? Early on, I realized that through exaggeration and extremism and even simply through blunt frankness, humor can be conjured effortlessly. In retrospect, most of my work, in the latter part of my life, has been excess. This was initially, excess with a point. Excess, in this case meant anything and everything. Excessive pseudo- “racism,” “confidence,” “masculinity,” “feminity,” “emotionality,” “sexism,” “narcissisms,” and “misogyny” were all themes that supposedly unified under a singular directive and message: “Get over yourselves people!”
At times, this was used to great effect and I cannot help but be a little guilty because much of this can be said and described as manipulative (but we all are!). Under various guises, my writing possessed an alternate persona—one that reflected little upon myself. This has grown stale and the formula needs something new, either that, or I have to reinvent the persona from ground up. But how so, when my persona lacked style and personality?
The problem ironically, stems precisely from the fact that I never got into myself. How could I get over myself when I was never really into myself in the first place?! There lies the paradoxical epiphany and the statement is made with sincerity. More significantly I realize, I am perhaps the most “impersonal” person, to ever write. Various divagations in my writing distract from my more important thoughts—there is always an ulterior motive. Furthermore, this is aggravated by the use of formality—the language is at times verbose—perhaps alienating some potential readers. More embarrassingly, is that some teenage blogs, xangas, and MySpace are more “personal” in content than I ever will be.
What then is my definition of “personal” language? Personal language, I suppose is anything expressed that can leave the originator of the content vulnerable. Yeah, sure telling you that my favorite color is blue, my favorite drink is soy milk, and my favorite book is The Catcher in the Rye is personal but largely in an inconsequential sort of way— it leaves no vulnerability. Furthermore going around asking questions like “What’s the difference between a woman and a prostitute besides the honesty?” does not really help matters.
So, how about some introspective narcissism? Most of the time, I realize that my writing protects me via a perpetual devolution into pretentious abstract. Where are the concrete revelations?
Let us start. My greatest weakness is one of indecisiveness, there are many things that I am sure of but most of the time I am uncertain. In the past, I have spent and invested great lengths of time and energy to mask this debilitating weakness by doing well in school and staying competitive, courteous, and most of all, reserved. The things that I know I like include music, writing, and thinking. As for people, I’m not sure. I’m quite apathetic when it comes to people. I think this apathy is worse than hatred since hatred shows concern while the former does not. I cherish the few friends I do have and yet it is more important for me to appear to have friends than to actually have them. There must be some shitty Freudian explanation for my downfalls…
I fail. I fail to tell you how I really feel. And I apologize. A friend of mine tells me that I’m “weird.” Another one points out that I’m an “enigma.” In either case, there is some truth to the generalization. However, to be precise, it is my disparate and oftentimes deliberate displacement of the self from my writing persona that creates an ambiguity of identification.
Even now, I'd like to say, ring in the Golden age of "emo-ism".... I hope I approach it with creativity!
