The absurdedly paradoxical piece, or the app, was a form of writing that was pioneered by my friend Asher quite a while ago, then taken over by my other friend Bethany and me and developed from there. Basically they were long paragraphs of carefully-crafted nonsense--as in, the sentences made sense grammatically, but only grammatically. Other than that, the definition is very fluid. Much of the time there were not many paradoxes within them at all (though perhaps some oxymorons), and the only thing absurd about mine is how proud I was of them.
Here is a sample of one of my apps:
"But does two plus two truly equal four? Think about it: put a cloud and a ninja together with a fairy and a rainbow (that's two plus two) and what do you get? Only the fairy, which is one, because the cloud could not dance, the ninja could not ripple, and the rainbow could not sing. Therefore, two plus two equals nine."I am not sure so much about Bethany's, but almost every sentence in each of my apps was deeply symbolic, its surface-content linked back to the real content by about three or four stops on the thought-train so that only I could know what I was writing about. It was totally brilliant, or at least I thought it was. The problem is that now I can't remember half the things I meant to say, and my own words confuse me.
Anyway, my own path of developing apps turned into a strange method of journalling my thoughts and feelings--cryptic narrative poetic prose, of sorts. I will share one of my later apps with you: one that was inspired by something I don't quite remember, that is kind of prettily written (and slightly emo), and that certainly mixes fiction with my real sentiments. The only part I fully understand is the ending, and I do like the ending.
The flaming red mingled with deep blue was crinkled, deformed in my hands, stiff and stubborn in its misshapen state, the yarn limp and torn across my shaking arm. The firm border was gone, leaving frail white cardboard folded, showing jaggedly beneath the ragged, frayed cloth.
It got wet. Why? It rained. Why?
You never wore it much, anyway.
What does that matter? What does that have to do with my friend who flew across the world and brought that back for me? And so I lowered my head, trembling upon my knees, and wept, for the old memories now tinged with grief, for the death of any new ones before they happened.
Then I looked inside, and wondered, where am I going? Tears dropped from my eyes, stars beneath the rain, burning on their paths down my face, leaving streaks of fire. Were the spirits free? The answer is blowing through the golden meadows, a tossing ocean of melody within my dark, dark hair. Shall I run, or wait, so I may fly? My wings are broken because I tried to catch you--I implore you, don't speak of your shattered dreams to me. Don't you know I know, and hurt for it? I wonder why I wonder and wander, everywhere, nowhere, knowing but never speaking. And I wished I could turn to liquid, my movements flowing, fluid, a dancing river leaping over rocks and trees. Why?
Words are beautiful, but only because of the meaning they contain. And they can only hold so much. So I found another way to show what I meant, but then I saw those were words, too, and wept again, because what I want to say I cannot say nor show. Only see. But how can I see it if I cannot say what it is, to tell you? And so the years went by, and the mountains were swept to the sea, crumbling dust tumbling over the dry, dry sand. My wings were still broken, never healing, the pain never leaving.
Who could hold me gently enough to keep me, to bring me back to life, to show me beauty greater than words?
The One, He picked me up, filling the hole in my heart, and said to me, you're not guilty anymore. No more filth clings to you. I have healed you; your brokenness is gone. I set you free, you are no longer captive. You will find the greatest beauty in my love and new life in my death.
Never forget. Now you are Mine, and I will never let you fall from my gentle hand.
I wept the third time, for joy and beauty and all things good, for they came from Him, and I am His. My wings will grow back soon.
Until then I can run like the river, all the way home.