There is Something Unnatural about the Book
There is something unnatural about the book.
It is too large to capture one’s feeling. It must inflate the burst of truth one arrived at beyond its natural concentration.
The author fills its pages to appease the book’s existence, its structure, its mode of consumption.
The author begins to invite the uninvited, forcing disconnected words into captivity while confining inspiration against its will.
The author trades insight for designs on greatness and immortality, while he drags his original revelation across pages for spectacle.
He has become an exhibitor of curated truths, arranging his gallery of intuitions into a distended mass of now buried experience.
He will punish his own insights should they fail to entertain.
By the time the book is finished there is little resemblance to the beauty that ignited it.
A depleted, brutalized, corrupted variant of what could have been.
