Write what you know
But what if what you know
Or rather what you think you know
Based on what you’ve told yourself you know
And others think they know you know or should know
Are things you might actually not know?
And what if the stuff you list off of that you know,
(Film, art, the 24 hour news cycle, tv shows, assorted activist and protest histories, detective narratives, theory, SF, and art school)
are actually part of a series of superficial genially constructed things that don’t actually capital M-Matter and instead they’re all just the things you crowd on the 4 wall poster of that digital dorm known as Tumblr?
What if the actual capital L-Life Experiences you know are all things you wish you weren’t a so called PHD expert on?
And you’re wondering this, typing it furiously as you steadicam, dollyshot around the eternal morgue housing Diego River and Frida Khalo sipping michiladas on a warm Sunday, which you’ve come to realize is actually your memory’s museum when a long haired girl in a sundress runs by you as a security guard yells across the hall, when you see her turn a corner with a box of matches and as the permanent collection ascends in flames all you can think of is…
What if the only thing you know about is feeling compelled to write only when you were longing for someone and not feeling compelled to because you were finally happy to have the right one?