the writereader

the plight of the writer who loves to
read & the reader who loves to
write,
is as such---
you will never be able to read everything that you want to
before you die & you will never be able to write, to spit out
everything that you ever wanted to,
for the cycle goes round & round
and
every new & interesting iota of life which bounces into your
present
moment
allowing you to understand just how naïve & ignorant you
still
are
of the world around you
(even though you do all that you can to know more, to understand more)---
you admit, with socrates as your companion,
that “all you know is that you know nothing”---
you divvy up your time the best that you can,
a prisoner to those obligatory human baseline
basic needs of
eating, sleeping, urinating & defecating---
but those books pile around you,
you find yourself so involved, intrigued & overwhelmed with
information that you want to consume,
that you sometimes don’t finish reading one before you begin the
next,
or you are reading 11 at once,
playing a balancing act on several different planes of
intellect at any given instant---
during all of this,
your typing hand still trembles, longing to
write, to work at producing your own thoughts in
a form that
someone
might also understand along the way---
and we are mediums between these points---
we are organic
regurgitants
performing the task of knowledge consumption &
production---
back & forth & back & forth into
oblivion,
and,
if you have fallen prey to this
inveiglement,
know that the itch will
never end,
but
will always satisfy---
it is probably the only healthy addiction,
one in which there is no
withdrawal to
speak of.

we are junkies, you & i---
fortunate
fortunate
junkies.