Often as a writer I pour over whether what I am writing is something that should command any attention. I reach out for the ethereal words to grasp them from the semi-opaque vapors in my mind that pass for thoughts, trying earnestly to say something significant. It is nearly inexpressible how I often feel that this is an exercise in futility: I can never say it well enough. It will fail, I fear… I believe. I even wrote an untitled poem back in early March that I posted on my personal Instagram (@prramer) that spoke to this feeling of inevitable failure at words.
Artifacts of Our Existence
I wonder if something befell us and we ceased as a species, what would the archaeologists who might find our planet be able to understand about what we were like. If many of the artifacts of our existence were still present, would they know that we mostly wrote with our right hands, that we shopped … Read more Artifacts of Our Existence
You must be logged in to post a comment.