the writereader

“As for me, all I know is that I know nothing.” -Socrates

the plight of the writer who loves to

read & the reader who loves to

write,

is as such---

you will never be able to read everything that you want to

before you die & you will never be able to write, to spit out

everything that you ever wanted to,

for the cycle goes round & round

and

every new & interesting iota of life which bounces into your

present

moment

allowing you to understand just how naïve & ignorant you

still

are

of the world around you

(even though you do all that you can to know more, to understand more)---

you admit, with socrates as your companion,

that “all you know is that you know nothing”---

you divvy up your time the best that you can,

a prisoner to those obligatory human baseline

basic needs of

eating, sleeping, urinating & defecating---

but those books pile around you,

you find yourself so involved, intrigued & overwhelmed with

information that you want to consume,

that you sometimes don’t finish reading one before you begin the

next,

or you are reading 11 at once,

playing a balancing act on several different planes of

intellect at any given instant---

during all of this,

your typing hand still trembles, longing to

write, to work at producing your own thoughts in

a form that

someone

might also understand along the way---

and we are mediums between these points---

we are organic

regurgitants

performing the task of knowledge consumption &

production---

back & forth & back & forth into

oblivion,

and,

if you have fallen prey to this

inveiglement,

know that the itch will

never end,

but

will always satisfy---

it is probably the only healthy addiction,

one in which there is no

withdrawal to

speak of.

 

we are junkies, you & i---

fortunate

fortunate

junkies.