Writing and truth

I want to say something about writing - that you stop lying when you start writing and perhaps that is the reason why I love writing so. In every other part of one's life the untruths creep in. Work, love and home life all carry the tiny maggots of untruths. We lie not to get in trouble, we lie not to hurt the beloveds and we lie because, it is simply easier than doing the truthful way. In our writings, we can be entirely brutal. We can rip into the body of lies and tear it asunder. We can articulate our rage, pain and agony. We do not need to be restrained because this is our final repository for our emotions.

If you have no place to be truthful, what a sorry life you must live. The truth is what we all need no matter how much lying, bull shitting and sucking up we do. We must say the truth - at least to ourselves in order to keep our souls intact.

If we are unable to be truthful with ourselves, then we are living lives of endless, permutations of illusions. We are fooling ourselves. I come to the writing place to erase the shadows over the piece of day. I want to know what my life is really about. Why am I doing what I am doing? Why am I subverting myself?

In the last three years, others who started with me have advanced in their careers and I am still at the same point I started. Why am I unable to progress? Or is the progress seen as a decline and therefore not attempted?

I don't go there. There is no point. I see no value in work other than the money. I don't think of it as my place to get friends, love and company. I see it as a place to simply die as a human being. I would be cloned or grafted. One or the other. I would not be able to stay a unique human being.

What is the path I need to be on? One day I think - maybe I should do the drone pathway and become sterile. Then another day, I come to the writing place and tell myself I would rather poison myself than subject myself to the endless futile politics of the workplace, the subtle rubbings between the powerful and the powerless and the limitless ways one can be humiliated if one just lets oneself be used. I am sure there is another way to think of work but I think of it as being a bit of dung being rolled, over and over by one or more dung beetle supervisors.

What do I want? I want to work with words. I want to be able to support myself with the labor of my writing. I want to be free of the endless, stupidities of the workplace where meetings are just time periods for showcasing one's superior talents for upward promotions. I want to be free of the endless crap being showered down on those who really work by those who profit from those who work. Yes, I want to write alone in my writing place and never, ever be in contact with these disgusting workers in every workplace I have encountered.

It is like this. There are wonderful people in the workplace. I find them. But there are far more ugly, disgusting suckup type folks than there are wonderful folks. The suckup folks destroy my desire to work with the wonderful folks because quite simply oil stains never get out of fresh white cotton. I think if you want to work with suckup people, you must be desperately in need of cash or a suckup person yourself.

I do not want to work with suck up people. I do not want to be a "yes mam, no mam" type of assistant. I do not want to be the person everyone unloads work on. I do not want to work like that.

What I do want to do is this: take out a word. Polish it. Gleam it up. Put it on the table. Admire it. And then make beautiful pieces of jewelary. That is what I want to do.