I've edited this on the basis of the comments below :) hopefully it's a little better. Thank you everyone who reviewed it. It helps me out a heck load.
Who am I to challenge the things that people do? The way they write? I boil, I boil. I look into this bubbling water.
Let me drown!
Let me sway. Let the boiling water fill up my lungs.
My writing. My tremors. My shakes. I cannot write it like this. I must write it this way. I end up writing nothing at all. The oceans in my mind overflow. I cry and cry and cry
I will write about my life, then. I will say; this happened. Now this, and now this. I will not dress it up in phrases.
I will be logical. I will say, see this – now this – now this.
See how I wrote? I did not say, “I trembled like the waves.” I said, “This happened – now this.”
Let me write it here, now; “my life”. I will include every flower that I ever saw. Tiny entrails. This orifice. Synapses. The fibres in a wash cloth.
I write down everything. I write down every question I ever had. Every thought. What now?
These are just words. This is not a story.
But what is a story? This happens – now this – now this.
Perhaps this is what writers do. They pick out the bigger details. How could I ever write a story, then? My life is not – this part, now this, and now
My life is jagged; misshapen events. I do not finish sentences. My mind wonders. It comes to me now, and then this, and then this. My mind is spinning. Which word is right? Which sequence, or thought? All? None of them?
There is this – is this good enough? And this answer – no. Probably not.
I want to write about the fibres in a wash cloth. Synapse in a secret door.
I want to write about my life. These random events that somehow piece together. How could I write about my life, then? Events connect. So why is it all disjointed?
My thoughts go too fast. Yet what are these thoughts? Nothing, really. Echoes of places. Perhaps a conversation. A book I read.
What is the basis of it? The basis is: nothing, really.
I could never be a poet. Poets write about Odysseys. Gods. Men in trenches. Then they dress them in beautiful phrases.
I am a wife. A what? Nothing. My life is nothing, really. It does not matter. Yet still, I struggle. How can I describe my life? How can I describe everything, and enclose it in this perfect story? This happens, now this, now this.
Here, I will hurl the words out.
My life so far:
I am a wife to Theodore. He hits me. I fall. He pushes me against the wall.
See? I told you that I could not write about violence. See with what icy precision I wrote, “he hit me, I fell, he pushes me against the wall.”
This is not the secret language such as poets use. They do not say: first this happens, then this. But look how much I rambled on. On! On, still! And still I looked back. Changed this word. Scratched out this stumbling phrase.
Stories are logical. “This is the start. This is the climax. Here is the ending.”
Life is not like that.
I want to write about my life. But there is self-consciousness in everything I do.