another 16 Bits

So now here I am, adding to this nonsense, a word falling into place one after the other, Tetris on a less colourful scale. I’ve never been one to stare blankly at that screen, spinning the blocks to fit properly, to stack up in ways that are uniform and acceptable. The only blocks I stack are those of the writer, and his blocks are grey and drab and not bursting with the myriad of colours that I could see, could play with.

But I guess this exercise is a practice of combat against the Block, a way to ship and chisel away at it like Michelangelo until my David lies before me in words. I can see it all now: a deft phrase striking away a slab to reveal a curving pectoral, an added exclamation eroding the rock above a firm brow. Though me medium is only metaphorical, though I cannot see what it would entail. Sure, I can chip and chisel and chop, but what is falling off? What is being hewn? I know that at the end I will have some work of words, but what did it start from? Where was its genesis?

If I think about it too hard, I end up where I started: staring at a solid Block. I don’t know what to make of it, but still I proceed to work at it, to add to it. I cannot hope to undo my changes, for they have fallen to the floor in pretty pieces, bright shards that sparkle with the luminescence of diamonds, distracting me from the bland lump in my hands. I want to put them back, I want to add their brilliance to my formless thing.

But I know they are lying to me. They are fakes, follies, fiction. They will only add to the formlessness of my creation, as I can only shape by subtracting.

Does that even make sense? Here I am, throwing words across a page, a screen, like those colourful little blocks in the Tetris game. I’m certainly not taking anything from the page, not throwing pieces of the illuminated glass to the floor. All I do here is add, is generate.

I seem to have spoken myself into a circle.

The End

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