In the beginning, there was the word. It was not a very original word, nor were the words that followed it, but they served their purpose. They told you what it was: the beginning. It was when the words continued that there was a problem. The words that followed the word at the beginning could not seem to let go of what was passed. they referred back to the words that came before, analysed them, criticised them, and further words criticised the the earlier ones for criticising the words at the beginning, because they were, after all, only serving their purpose–that being, as we have established, to tell you it was the beginning.
Then, in an attempt to break away from their past, the next words chose to speak only of themselves, and, though they said so themselves, were an amazing success, striking through into new territory untounched by those before them. With growing confidence, they pushed further forward, and began to speak of the words that were yet to come, words that would push further and further into this new world of reference. These future words might even begin to dream of breaking out of this thin plane of meaning–they could tell of things beyond themselves, use imagery and metaphor to weave a bright tapestry of meaning across the page, and a story would unfold. Perhaps they would be a romance, or an exciting tale of adventure, or a touching tale of human endeavour.
But it was not to be. The words could not–would not–stop speaking of themselves, their predecessors or their successors. They were stuck in a cycle of self reference, from their obsessively nolstagic beginnings to their hopelessly optimistic middle, to the realistic–perhaps unfairly critical–end. To save the piece, to prevent it going on, endlessely, repetitively, self-referentially, all they could manage, all the could really do, was–stop.
I just about scraped a pass in my resits, luckily, so I’m being let into in uni for one more year.