Welcome to a non-argument. Welcome to Dada reborn.

In this article, I will refuse to follow the artificial constructs of the English language. Those evil and wicked grammarians began codifying what is right and wrong in the 18th century. How dare they arbitrate their will over me and what they believe is right.

The rest of my editorial observer will follow in a format that is neither grammatically nor stylistically correct, consistent or standardized. I will do my best to break the rules both of the Campus Times and English that constrain writing and thought to narrow channels of limited creativity. I will write in the way that I want.

There is a certain futility in writing. A writer’s words and influence diminish as time progresses. What is written inevitably builds to a greater body of thought. We’ve all read novel arguments and news worthy of opinion. What, then, is contrary to an argument?

This is more than a rejection of grammar. It is a rejection of formality and propriety in writing. It is up to you to extract what may be any meaning. In fact, what follows is mostly nonsense.

Beware the Grammarwock, my son! the pens that scrathe. The rules that bind, betwixt and berave.

I drank syntax’s line. To lexicon we are enslaved. Not his nor her, but they. Me and you the other day, leaving the preposition hanging as it ought to be.

Challenge the norm. Do not believe what I say. Symbolic patterns have lost any meaning. Consistency is worthless. Tradition is harmful. Content is useless.

No one reads words anymore. All is forgotten. Writing can never go as deep, or mean as much, as thought. I could never learn about everything during my lifetime or in infinity. Sound poetry is the descent into nothing.

I am not here right now.

I repeat myself when under stress. I repeat myself when under stress. I repeat myself when under stress. My head is talking and it’s saying, ‘I’ve got nothing to say to you, so listen through my words and find a truth that won’t soothe. We’re all revolving doors searching for something new. But, nothing comes out that’s never been said before.”

Life is the apostrophe, ending with a phrase. In the beginning is my end, shifting and confused. Are you with me, or are you with you?

You are afraid of growing old.

You are afraid of dying.

You are afraid of death.

Your moral values are bankrupt

Avoid life’s questions. Thought is subversive. What gets you through life? That which brings you to death?

I know what is good for you. Defer to authority! Disconcerting deference makes you a sycophant. Twenty years of hard work may amount to nothing. A life that is empty will make the soul bleed. A fear of emptiness will build its own need. All your life is just noise, a distraction from a void. Settle into a life of wearisome routine. One year, 10 years, 50 years, you’ll look in the mirror and see that your parents are still alive.

This is my writing. There is much like it, but this is mine. Without me, my writing is nothing. Without my writing, I am nothing.

These words convey no meaning. How does one write not to convey any meaning? Even gibberish conveys intent.

Back to formality. All that is hence is mostly nonsense. So is this how the story ends?

Otis is a member of
the class of 2011.



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