freewrite: necessary but necessarily inadequate

he said it was okay, that if one word followed another, somehow they would come full circle, and from the perspective of the reader, it would all make sense somehow, that the comfortable pedantic pace of writing one letter after another, and one word after another, like a hog snuffling the earth an inch before its snout, somehow this pace would lead to sentences, sentences to paragraphs, paragraphs to a full and intelligible narrative. and thus i did this. it was easy. and yet it was with a hollowness, the hollowness of not knowing where i was going, and suspecting that the reader would know this as well, would spot it like a burning birthmark on my forehead, and would dismiss my story, and myself, as being like so much empty nothing, like the talking that is so trivial it might as well be silent... or worse, to condemn me as mad. but then again, don't we all live this way, to greater or lesser extents? we pretend to know where we are going, where we came from, but in reality, there are only phonemes of our life that we process and throw out, and link together, each day succeeding the next, like we are fulfilling some grand ironic theme, like we are heading towards a happily ever after, or some more cynical destination. it is all pretend and pretentious, isn't it? all necessary. but all necessarily incomplete and inadequate...