an unnaming ceremony

It is strange to be writing again, to an imaginary audience. I forget, and I remember - the careful and delicate pain I have learned from in producing an public window into my own private thoughts, and so whatever kind of writing this will turn out to be, it will likely be the same as my previous attempts (despite whatever attempts at variation I have tried in the past). That matters little to me - what is of utmost significance, though, is that I provide an honest representation of myself here, as if I were telling a story to someone I know (casually at the very least). There will always be secrets that are mine to not disclose; such is the consequence of living an "interesting life." The issue, of course, remains that it is up to me to endeavor towards experiencing such an existence and to ecstatically, emphatically, and enigmaticly engage everyone in the telling of such a tale. I, of course, will likely butcher the English language along the way in my pretension to elegant prose, hopefully yielding some enthralling, though perhaps erratic entertainment. Thus shall be our contract.

As the reader may note above, this post has been entitled "an unnaming ceremony" - in which I explain the simple, subtle tensions of which plague me before starting any sort of project. I have noted, on occasion, that small problems, such as the correct color of pen, have had the capability to infinitely delay my progress of the rumored-to-be-difficult first-step of any large-scale project, to the point where days, perhaps even weeks, pass by before I even begin to take steps towards rectifying the situation. So it is with pens and their colors; so it is with language and flourish (the impulse to insert a u to into 'colors,' for example - merely, of course, for colorful effect - whilst writing in this voice is locked into eternal struggle with that abominable red underline of a misspelled word); and so it is with names and naming.

Alas, I return to mystery and vagaries. The title, as you see above, is currently "Three Liters of Water" - a far cry from the serious, dramatic undertones of my previous titles. The title is not circumspect; it is not a reference to the aesthetics of the universe; nor is it a grand, empty, meaningless-striving-to-be-meaningful title (yet). It is merely an observation drawn from the environment which I have found myself in - three liters of water.

Again, mystery and vagaries... and the beauty of human interpretation, leave the title's meaning much to interpretation, and as such, with much-to-be-desired in the fields of Truth and Purpose. It is, of course, subject to change, dictated by the flux of whatever emotion seems to be passing through my consciousness at the current moment in time. Presently, the it will do.

Now that we have been acquainted so laboriously with the title, perhaps it is such a time to introduce myself, the author. The signature below marks an "F. T. Reynard" - an obvious moniker - for a man who has aspirations to delusion, who seeks the nobility of insanity, a man cut-and-dried to hang, like a savory ham, only remembered for its posthumous qualities. Is the prose sweet, tender? Or is it hard and rough, difficult to digest?

I tire of this metaphor; for I will not attempt to try too hard to convince you of my own neurosis with such paltry, transparent euphemisms. Let my actions speak more clearly. In the end, I think you will be quite satisfied.