There is a reason bugs don't belong on a notebook.

There is a reason bugs don’t belong on a notebook. As the geometry of writing begins with its rushed lifts and bends, sharp lines and dots, and a fluidity that belongs to each writer, the arrival of even the most miniscule perceived life alters the writer’s actions. Instead of a left curve of ball-point, perhaps a right twist teases and prods the creature to follow the stream of consciousness to the next line of text; the writer feels led to create new shapes with the words before him, making a 2-dimensional city for the speck of moving color to glide within, as the man-god looks down and for the first time truly visualizes the power of words and ideas to control life.

Life is a series of movements and moments--a game of Russian roulette--except in this case it is the person that dances, not the gun. I‘ve always looked at life as assuming different views of that barrel. “If he has forgotten her, his victim, then she must not forget him or her own past. Their murderers need to forget, but their victims must not let them.” But the problem is that we are all victims and murderers at some point; it is a matter of position, and we all control and are controlled by collective ideas and the need to both remember and forget.

There is a reason bugs don’t belong on a notebook. You see, with even the slightest accidental stroke of the artist’s quill, the life on paper will no longer glide between the divots and stick of not-quite-so-dry ink, but become a smear of color in the specific dimension of paper and ideas, and, like everything else, blurred in the writer’s mind and thus made material in scribbles. And then, you see, what remains left for the man-god is but to examine the work before him and consider his position, sitting with a pen and paper, alone.