Depression presses close and fast against the ribs of those who refuse to succumb to the pressures of society. Fire comes fast to those who fight against — tooth, nail, blood, and guts. Stagnation settles in those who can’t be bothered.
The fall is coming.
Can you feel the rush of wind?
In my head are endless streams of consciousness. A hundred, a thousand, tens of hundreds of voices — all at once. I talk to them when no-one flesh and real has anything to say. I take refuge in them when no-one true and living has any solace to afford. I hide in them when I cannot stand to be discovered.
I think this is defined as insantiy.
I think all good artists go insane for the sake of the art. The message and the words. The voices that call through dark shallows and endless halls to us that carry on.
I have no idea where we’re going. Some do, I’m sure. But for me, the bright flash of my muse is blinding. Only, the sensation is addictive enough that I stumble on through the dark every time. I’ve never been one for flashlights and finding one’s way. I’ve always kept to darkness and stumbling through ill-lit corridors into the bittersweet unknown.
I am all about hindsight.
What can I see behind me now?
This deep depression leading, inevitably to death. It cannot be mine so it will be someone else’s. I name them burnt up things and I dream of how distraught we’ll be for missing them.
The truth is that their strength is my weakness, and their foresight is my lack therefore. I wander while they boldly blaze the way.
Good little puppets, living for me where and when and how I simply cannot. I only do it for the thrill, the release, the catharsis of emptying these demons from my chest. I am not as much the devil, the puppeteer, the tied up master of strings as I may seem. Am I? Is this heart all black and hollow? Is this darkness, this winter soul I have condemned, as such, to hell?
I don’t believe in hell or gods anymore. And this — more than religion and more than fervor and more than enlightenment — may be my only reason. A fear of being, somehow, proved to be just that. The devil and the damned.
This may be a fault of self-perception. I admit.
It’s hard to tell since I’ve stopped praying, reading, waiting.
Instead, I chose to take another view. One in which Fate is the cruel god to worship. And yet, a god we cannot help but bow to. So, bow we continue to do. Explain that with ritual and smoke mirrors, if you dare. I cannot put much weight behind it. I think it’s just the pulse of time. I’m beginning to think life just leads to dying. Funny irony there, but true.
I’m becoming a hard-core cyncic. One who’d rather spend time weaving these threads that, for lack of a better image, appear to go nowhere significant. What’s significant?
I’m getting very methodical in this cyncism, at any rate.