Or, when that gap of air between my body and your body defines what I consider as unreal and undesirable (since formal unity is something easily achieved when mixing two colors, but not so much when mixing two memories) then the idea of you and I becomes an idea of pure concrete. So much that the utter struggle to continue a sentence becomes the most real struggle I have faced during the struggle of the writing struggle and
then the moment of fluidity slides by like an ejaculation, just happens, then writing is not as discursive and critical endeavor, rather a flow of words in the most beautiful, honest, pure evidence of my mortality.
Then it is in the boundaries, the limits, the concepts that stupidly tries so hard to give a most necessary formal structure to the writing with ideal flexibility, the true plasticity that only a caring piece of clay can enjoy. Then my writing is a lump of clay and I am a lump of memories, a clear vessel of the most profound emotions one can encounter in the midst of a revolution of data. One lump having to be kind fully reminded that the tradition of existing is forced into the tradition of furthering traditions. If I could, then I would, but I hardly can. I hardly can think aside from the limits of my brain and then again I am forcefully attempting to continue, just to not impose a limit to the idea formally presented, the thesis. A face of melancholia to the age of the pure block of text, one that is most successfully broken down with a smile of short phrases.