The Labyrinth of Language

In the labyrinth of language, I find an escape, a strange dialect that I employ to lose myself. There are days when the world’s caffeine is but a drop in the ocean of my fatigue… I pen my thoughts to anyone who would listen. This is the act of externalizing, but where does the internal reside? The internal is a cacophony of silence, a canvas of pre-art, a cosmos brimming with pre-things awaiting their names. The internal is an identity that I have crafted.

At times, I write to materialize the ineffable. No matter its nature, it can always be etched in ink. Even under the watchful eyes of persecution or moral scrutiny, the page becomes a sanctuary for the vile, the grotesque, the sadistic, the obscene, the lascivious, and all the nebulous contents of the within. Something so colossal that it propels the lines, yet so humble that it yields to societal morality.

There is no morality in the ink that stains the page. Nothing but pigment suspended in a sea of white. Here, I challenge morality, leaving it floundering, unable to find its footing. Here, I shape-shift at will. I don the horns and charm you with angelic wings to veil the act of love. I defile, and yet I celebrate, we all celebrate, like schoolchildren reveling in the face of the audacious. If I could, I would infuse the potent scent of restrooms, occupied rooms, and weary flesh. As if that weren’t audacious enough, I sign off as whoever I choose to be.

The blame lies with mankind, and a human writer should confine themselves to self-help books. Let literature be the playground of the demonic and the debauched. If at the moment of creation, this urge does not stem from the depths of one’s being, then keep this flawed imitation to oneself. This is the dance of words, the symphony of language, the art of writing. This is the world as I see it, as I feel it, as I live it. This is me. This is you. This is us. This is humanity.

Copyright ? Beatriz Esmer