Trying to live as a writer in the world is a crazy thing. like searching for salt in an ocean of sand; its not there until you find it. Hope holds out for that one brilliant, blinding flash of inspiration. That milk and honey land of endless imagining, which will bring about ones ascent to legend. Its like an epic ballad, a story of monomythic proportions. The questing hero starts out from his lonely quaint village, with high dreams and higher expectations, though never truly knowing what lies in store. Over a series of brutal disappointments, and vicious brushes with insanity. Life is found to be anything other than what it was thought. A series (seemingly endless at times) of brief touches upon the - significantly more static and stable - lives of others, leave one wondering whether they are in fact the protagonist and sole actor in this ballad, or merely another blundering NPC, perhaps forming an object lesson, or merely comic relief. And yet that vast horizon lingers on, that quintessential dream of pure objective glory. One feels, at times, significantly more Luciferian than Messianic, being cast - perhaps even somewhat deliberately - against ones own maker. Searching for that true freedom which may only express itself as a form of metaphoric (and ideally euphoric) apotheosis. There is a tendency to lose ones taste for it, to wander, disenchanted, in the heart of this horrific, faceless desert of fantasy. To lose ones way, and long for a more stable path. Yet it cannot be, though many give up in their search, for a few others that lust for perfect expression is a purity of consciousness which knows no equal. Love and lust, hope and glory, wealth and worldly fame, these things all pale when set up against the dream of one day being lifted from ones own mortality by the work of ones own hand. We, the world-builders, sky-castle-climbers, giant-slaying, dragon-taming, nightmare forging, pure, triumphant dreamers. We have tasted god, that pure creative dissonance by which all existence thrums itself into being. And having tasted the waters of life, we find we cannot live for any other cause. So dream your dreams, gentle wanderer, long for that high, Olympian glory, fast upon the worldly meats of distraction and remorse. Embrace thy madness, and in madness seek creation. How does the child emulate the father? it is only through creation that we do justice to our creator, and since omniscience can only be a purer, more sublime form of madness, so must madness walk, among the minds of greater souls.
Posted on: Tue, 15 Jul 2014 19:30:38 +0000
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