Michael Van Vleet
I am at the mercy of subconscious currents, little better than a sea creature when creative, driven by forces I barely understand. I'm a product of society. At some point, a confluence of stimuli acts upon me and I'm compelled to wiggle my fingers such that words come tumbling out in the only language I know, and if I'm lucky they're read and enjoyed.
I get inspired to write by questions such as: Is this all I am? A collection of cells? A river of babbling language in my head that I mistake for myself? Can I prove that I am more than that via some magical, non-survival-related activity? Does that prove anything?
Also thoughts such as "Heh, that's kinda funny, you should write that down."
From where does this voice come, that pushes me to document thoughts? I can't say. I don't know. I don't know why I started typing in this box, save that it seemed like the thing to do at the time. I can't tell you, at this point, when I'm going to stop typing. Probably soon, though. I don't imagine anyone has the patience to stick with this conceit for too much longer.