I respect poetry so much because it does what I cannot do - say so much with so little.
When I have something Much to say, it takes me just as many words to say it. I say it with words that are each of them bland and common, unimaginative by their lonesome, with the hopes that if I stack so many together and squeeze a single drop of Much from each that it might flow into something meaningful.
When I have something to say, I say it twice. I say it three times. Because the first or second may not have captured the point. Because I do not trust myself to express the full essence saying it just once. Like just now, those last two sentences. I’ll repeat myself a third time for good measure - because I do not say it right just once or twice.
Poems say things in only a half, only a quarter. They choose single words worth more than ten of mine. I want to know how their minds shop for words. I want to distill myself like poets do. I want to trade in all my too many common words for the way they use an extraordinary few.
If I keep writing this, I’ll write it forever. I’ll explain myself again, as I have already, as I’m doing now. With more and different other words, with the hope of saying myself fully, like how all the hatched and messy wanton scribbles from a pen might finally color in a page. I want to change that. I want to not rip the page I’ve oversaturated by the tip of my pen.
I’ll start tomorrow, maybe, to explain myself less.
(ID: a four panel comic of a young person with short hair, glasses, and freckles. Panel one shows the back of their head. It reads: “i don’t want kids”. Panel two: They have turned toward the camera; one of their eyes are visible now. It reads: “but sometimes I fantasize being a parent”. Panel three: They are seen hugging a child close. It reads: “and treating my child in ways my mom never did. Panel four shows the speaker looking down at the child again. The child looks like a much younger version of themself. It reads: “But i think what i really want is to go back and parent myself” /end id.
every time i feed my cat i think of who woulge? “dinner” it is my cat.
oh this post is actually incomprehensible isn’t it
this one this is the Image
I made this image. That’s my cat Lola.
This pic is almost 3 years old. She doesn’t eat Fancy Feast anymore because she has thyroid issues so we give her special dinner.
I was completely lucid when I made this picture.
please explain the picture
I saw this picture on Twitter years ago & it reminded me of my cat. She used to wear a collar that had a jingly bell on it, Then we took it off, and she got good at sneaking onto tables and eating butter when no one was looking. Also she likes to eat her dinner very fast.
A lot of people got hung up on the word “woulge” for some reason. People like to obsess over every little thing & assume it has some hidden, deeper meaning, like it’s some kind of puzzle to solve. I made it say “woulge” because I thought it would look funny.
