Brushing Off Dead Skin

It seems to me that cutting, hacking away, and even forgetting… are all essential.

Maybe to life itself, definitely to writing. You’ve got to be able to exist in the present without getting bogged down by whatever came before. No matter the context. Fiction, blogging, notes, all of it can get in the way if you’re to caught up in what you’ve already done. I try to think of it as if I hadn’t done anything at all before. None of the posts before this one exist. I lie to myself and sometimes… sometimes I don’t even have to try, it just feels that way and I benefit immeasurably from it.

There are a lot of posts here I’m kind of proud of when I look back at that but that’s also a big reason why I try not to look back at all. Patting myself on the back and feeling good about how well I captured a though, idea, or opinion on something… is all well and fine except that I’ve got that on my mind instead of something new, something interesting. In that respect I don’t even care if I repeat myself. As long as I don’t remember doing it, it’s not really repitition.

Not in a way that makes it boring or rehearsed.

The new stuff that emerges (whether it’s in what we do in our lives, our stories, or anything else) will probably always resemble the older layers of skin, in one way or another. You might say history isn’t afraid to repeat itself because it’s not afraid to forget itself. Ideally… neither am I.


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