When Fire Needs To Learn Grammar

Writing is the language of my soul.

It loves words.

It loves abstraction.

It loves open-ended cliffhangers for life’s most dangerous questions.

It loves to see itself concretized in black and white

as if to say: I have a place in this world.

But once it comes out, it must be contained.

Channeled.

Given metaphors.

Dressed in fonts that won’t rupture the message —

even when rupture is the goal

Inside, it is limitless.

Raw power.

Capable of tearing through generations of illusion.

Outside, it must behave.

And that is the struggle.

It is not meant to always be understood.

It is not meant to be pretty.

It is not meant for gallery walls or polite applause,

as much as I would love to sign my name beneath it.

If getting איש under the gleaming lights is my goal, then I’ve failed what was entrusted to me.

It is meant to shift.

It is meant to earthquake.

Even if it means being called crazy.

And writing through that lens becomes a burden.

What should be liberating becomes another battlefield.

The flow stalls. The train of thought brakes,

because every sentence is punctuated by the thought: Will this land?

Words like abyss, illusion, abstract

once screaming to be heard,

are filtered back into another cage.

Do words die when they’re too fiery to be understood?

Does print itself make revelation blasphemous?

Some ideas demand flesh.

They demand imagery.

Sometimes even the grotesque,

to shake us out of sleep.

Raging at God for being sadistic and cruel, while neither of us willing to let go of each other. 

Even if it fails.

Even if it backfires.

Especially then.

If all we want are gentle seven-second soundbites,

soon we won’t last three nanoseconds with anything real. 

All our greats were shunned.

Outcast.

Burned.

You are in good company.

Take the shot.

Let it rip.

Don’t hold back.

Let the mushroom cloud rise. The one where even God trembles at its sight. 

איש

P.S even this peice had to be contained and limited. How sad and ironic