His Masterpiece

He is writing his life’s work: he knows it. It started at University, or maybe before, or after. Maybe he didn’t go to University. It doesn’t matter: no one has written this before. But he is never happy, with what he writes. He keeps every bit of paper he has ever held in his hands, in elaborate filing systems. He adds rooms to his house filled with papers, notebooks, and drafts of drafts. He can’t admit that he lives in fear. He could lose historic work: future masterpieces. His ideas could be stolen, if any paper left his home. The paper builds up. It is everywhere. He has exhausted his block of land, the bottom two floors of the house have sunk into the ground. But paper is still being delivered. He keeps ordering it, scouring catalogues for the best deals. He steals the neighbour’s junk mail: these references of our times will one day carry meaning. He knows the capitalist system will capitulate. He collects ideas, but has no time to order them. He orders his papers, but has no time to think. Except when sitting on the toilet bowl. He sits there, thinking, oh how nice it is to just switch off. So he sits there not thinking about anything. Is it possible not to think about anything? He writes that down. He thinks some more about not thinking. He has a smile playing on his face, and climaxes in a contented sigh. Perhaps he is influenced by other feelings, of bodily functions. He writes down: “influence of bodily functions?” He is afraid to flush, but discovers he has absentmindedly slipped the notes on toilet paper into his pocket. Nevertheless, he checks with the brush, to ensure he hasn’t wiped with important notes. Whilst he is on the toilet, there is a delivery of paper. It is of the best quality, neatly lined, and the delivery has come from the other end of the state. The truck driver lights up a cigarette and rings the bell. There is no answer. The truck driver leaves a burning cigarette on the doorstep. Finally having flushed, the writer goes to the door. He opens it. He stomps on the burning cigarette butt, but doesn’t curse it. The delivery truck has left, and he curses that instead. He curses the strong wind, air that is so careless about direction. He walks to the road in front of his house, to look for signs of the truck. There is a note in the letter box, saying that the paper has to be picked up at such and such. What a hassle. The cigarette butt has blown indoors. He doesn’t see that it is still glimmering. He doesn’t remember hearing an explosion. He has blacked out. While he is being rushed to hospital, fragments of text cover the city. Rains of confetti are reported on the News. A pedestrian stops and tries to make sense of these fragments, but it doesn’t make sense, and turns on the television instead. Journalists have been sent to analyse objectively. A stupid old man that some thought wise, uses it as mulch. Words, words, words. It keeps raining and raining - the rivers of confetti become the sea. Our writer wakes up, and sits up in his hospital bed to watch the spectacle he has caused. Our writer records his emotions of the spectacle. There is no bibliography as his library is confetti now. His influences are destroyed; picked up by the wind that has no care in the world. He is a writer, he is on the news. He becomes filthy famous. Bits of paper with his words are sold to collectors, like concrete fragments of the Berlin Wall were. Collages are auctioned. Biographies about him become best sellers. The writer is invited on TV. Scientists are trying to crack his code, apparently. But no one cares, art is belief. He never has to pick up a pen again, or tap at a keyboard. Anthologies of his scattered words are released and translated into 12 languages. His publishers sue an experimental German writer for plagiarism, because he made a collage of random words. Our writer is happy. He knew he was close to writing the masterpiece.