The Artist and The Muse- Pt. 3

How strange that in my continued reading, I have formed some sort of odd bond with Ted Hughes.
In the literary sense of course, meaning I feel a connection of personality, in certain fractions with this man whom I considered slightly wicked.

However, only a few chapters in (although NOT my first book in which he is mentioned), I find that he has been re-invented in my eyes. I am beginning to realize that their union and demise are both at once products of their education, personality and some underlying belief in something greater than themselves. Destiny. Fame. Fate. They, particualrly he, believed in things being laid out before you in a path of stars and planets and circumstance.

They had been taught great myths and great epic poems and therefore translated their lives into the art forms that were their familiar havens. Following Robert Graves' White Goddess and the ever elusive Muse that descended upon them for the duration of their marriage, they lived their lives accordingly.

The thing that struck me today in particular was Diane Middlebrook's (the author of Her Husband, that is my mind candy at the moment), is that as she is describing Ted Hughes' personality, she goes into great detail about what he is trying to reveal or not reveal in his poetry. He is a contradiction in personality and as an artist. He wants to be like the poets and writers that have inspired him, that have come before him, but he rather hates the pressures and duties of fame.

Also, in his poems there are  numerous references to personal secrets & thoughts & themes & images. Things he put into plain view, but things most likely only he could decipher. As I was reading this, I got goosebumps. This is EXACTLY my way of writing and expressing. Every little things has 2 or 3 or 4 separate meanings. Each theme and phrase and word is generally a reference to something specific. But only I, or the person that is mentioned in said work, would know its meaning.

I beginning to think there is more to these people and this relationship than I ever imagined.

The Artist and The Muse... Pt. 2

Something else I have been considering lately in reference to these relationships is the balance of power. It seems that often the Muse begins in power, but the power is later shifted to the Artist to the point that the Muse is left almost totally weak.

Is it more important to be loved more than you love? Or to love more than you are loved? One is certainly safer, but perhaps less fulfilling. Whoever loves less holds the power, but does it lead to happiness?

From observations from real life, I like to think that with most relationships, the power and the love ratio shifts back and forth between the two continually, depending upon needs, current circumstances etc. It is when the balance ceases to move back and forth, that the relationship unravels or reaches an unhealthy point.(By the way, for clarification, when I say love, I do not mean the foundation of the relationship or unconditional love. By that I mean emotional dependency and general immediate feelings, urgent passion etc.)

I feel as though I have been on both sides with my counterpart (explaining the back and forth, up and down consistency of a 2 1/2 yr. period in which a legitimate connection was formed and maintained) and most definitely have been on the power side with others, though little shifting ever occurred, thus a relationship never forming.

Perhaps I am thinking of this from too technical a standpoint. But I think the only way that I can delve into this subject and dissect my mind is to grasp it from a rational standpoint rather than an emotional one. I don't want my thoughts to be muddled by sentimentality or nostalgia. Everything always looks sepia toned in retrospect.

However, I belong to one and will not change it. Cannot change it.
"I once had a love, now lost at sea... so now one love must be enough for me."

The Artist and The Muse... Pt. 1

As a Muse, my body belongs to the artist. As an Artist, my mind belongs to art. As a lover of art, my heart belongs to beauty and creativity. And as living art, my soul belongs to God.

That being said, I recently became aware of another artistic couple that is starting to interest me- that of Auguste Rodin and Camille Claudel. As the Plath-Hughes relationship is so very close to my heart (and I have been studying it for a few years now), I am going to put it aside for now to dip my toes into other stormy waters.

This tumultuous relationship is as fine an example as any to portray the complications of romance and art, or rather, romance and artists.

As I have said before, artists are generally inherently selfish and narcissistic. I say this only because I have found this in myself as well as most other artists I know, regardless of the medium or the result. This kind of personality does not lend itself well to an instiution that requires sacrifice and long term commitment. Not to say that artists do not sacrifice, but the sacrifice is for their art & the commitment is a general one (to their art), not usually a specific thing. Though it may always be sculpting or painting that moves, the ideas and emotion behind it are always changing.

So as a muse and artist, does the art belong to the creator? Or to the inspiration? And is it possible, considering that to create it is required to be in some sort of passion, to maintain a working and stable relationship with someone of a similar disposition? Because, passion easily turns to anger & grief and vice versa. So is it just a matter of course to have a blazing fire between two people burn both to the ground eventually? Or at least leave one or both singed? Where is the line between temporary grief and permanent madness?

It seems that as an artist you cannot love any but another artist, for no other understands the slavery to the craft that is required. But on the other end of that, it seems as though you cannot love an artist and an artist cannot love you because their is always art separating you. And art shared between you. Art severs. Art binds. Art is always first and there cannot be three in a relationship. It somehow becomes a love triangle that will never be solved. You, me and art. The artist, the muse and the creation.

The Artist and The Muse- the foundation

I have continued my reading on the relationship between Sylvia Plath and Ted Hughes. I feel myself, or my former relationship rather, reflected in it. I am planning on taking notes to further my study on the complexity of relationships between artists, particularly of the romantic variety, including the vast rewards and the ultimate demise.
Rather pretentious perhaps, but it is something that has intrigued me for a long while and I have been planning on writing up my findings.
So this will probably be the repeated topic of upcoming posts.

at war

It's a phobia of sorts. Claustrophobia. But not a body enclosed in a small place. Rather a small place enclosed in a body.

I feel as though I can trust almost no one, let alone entrust anything of worth to another.

I am at war with my body again. Not seeing the beauty that was once revealed to me.

I want to shrink. I want to expand. I want to starve. I want to binge. I want to feel. I want to be numb. I want to scream. I want to stay silent.

I cannot see what others see. Just disgust at my humanity. My flaws, my functions, my weaknesses. Incessant needs and wants that cannot be quelled for long enough.

The Current Weather Report

It is as though my mind is crawling out of my skull through my eye sockets, to be quite frank.
Like my subconscious or unconcious is screaming inside a small glass box.
I can see outside, but I cannot partake of what is going on around me and no one can hear me.
I have this quiet nagging telling me that I cannot censor myself all of the time like I have been doing.
It is exhausting and dishonest.
But at the same time I don't know how many people I want to see what's really behind my eyes and actions.
I am coming to find that being an artist is a constant battle.
Between (narcissism & selfishness) AND (self-punishment & self-loathing).
My ability to produce and my production level in my art is directly linked to my mental well-being.
If I do not produce, I feel worthless, therefore feeling worthless, I do not produce.
It is a cycle so hard to get out of.
But then again even if I am producing, more often than not, I don't approve of the final outcome.
I have reached a turning point where I can shut out and shut down or I can reach out.
But I am afraid of hurting others and of others hurting me.
I do not have many ways to self-medicate, which is a good thing in one sense, but leaves me searching.
I am simultaneously compulsive and stagnant.
But I guess today is not so bad.
It is better than it is at night.
I wish I could sleep.

Journal Entry- Letter to You, Dearest

I feel so distraught by the fact that I do not know how to function. I sense some sort of death, but am not blessedly numb from the effects. I gave so much. You took too much. And now, so much of what I knew before is left in my childhood and is just an illusion that I cannot even perceive in others. I have none of what I began with. My vulnerability, my trust, my innocence, my ability to love without reason or repay, even my belief in love itself. I was questioning it before all of this occurred, but there is not the smallest scrap of hope left for it.

I do not mean this to sound totaly dire or crushing. I am sure you will never see this, actually. But I don't know how else to cope with my everyday than to write it out. All the things that nag at me and will not leave me be, I must exorcise it all somehow.

I do not sleep anymore. I simply enter another world, where anything is possible in the ways that you wish would never be. There are no rules of logic and physical limitations. The hours while I sleep are just my other self trying to find something or trying to unlose myself. I am constantly searching... for people, for destinations, anything that seems of worth. It is an exhausting trek that leaves me feeling asleep when I am awake and awake while I am sleeping.

I keep grabbing onto whatever manages to save me for the moment. Little temporary grasps at sanity. It pauses for a second. But I keep unraveling a little more each day. It does not get better. It cannot get better. I try, I do. But I am planted where I stand.

I hate that I have to convince myself everyday that it wasn't a lie. I hate that I still question whether or not you ever really loved me, if you ever even knew how. I gave everything. Everything. My time, my thoughts, my effort, my affection. Now what do I have? I am not one to give those so easily to those who do not deserve it. So I hope so badly that it was for some purpose. But I do not have the ability to do it again. I don't think I ever will. It takes so much to let someone in, my mind and personality do not allow it without much in return. I think now that I much prefer the solitude and quiet. It may make the constant flow of thoughts louder, but I have no one to tell me it is not legitimate.

I honestly do not know how people can do it over and over, by choice. The only conclusion that I can come to is that not as much is given and it lessens each time. Not that that means anything positive about me. Just that I am foolish enough the put it all in one person without much question.

I am lead by my emotions, not by my body or even my head, though it sure tries. I do not know how to see past myself, my throbbing heart that has been in a dull ache for longer than I care to remember. Sharp pangs hit me when I hear your name, when I see a place we had gone, when a song takes me back to a moment that I cannot have back.

I am so angry. I want desperately to hate you. I know no reason why I should have any desire to see you again. It scares me to death, the thought of running into you. But it scares me even more to think that I will never see you again. I never thought that you wouldn't be a part of my life. But I don't know how to be some apathetic, platonic being in relation to you. I have felt too much, said too little.

I wish I had had the courage to tell you how much I loved you. I wish I could tell you so many things. I feel as though I am cut off from my own body part. I didn't want this. It wasn't supposed to be like this. But I can do nothing to change it and I will not try to any more. I've learned in the last year or two that no matter how much you strive to sway another person, it doesn't really matter unless they want to be swayed.

I hate that I am writing this or posting this for that matter. Not that almost anyone will read it. I keep these blogs very private for this reason. I know you are not completely to blame, SO much of the blame lays at my feet. This is just as much of a chastise on myself.

But I'm sorry that I wasn't enough. I'm sorry that I couldn't be what you needed. I'm sorry I said so many things in anger. I am not one to deal well with jealousy of any sort. I'm sorry I gambled and lost. I'm sorry I was foolish enough to believe whatever you told me. I'm sorry I let myself be so blind. I'm sorry if I hurt you. I'm sorry I let you hurt me, more times than I can count.

I'm just holding on to the fleeting hope that there will be nights when I won't cry and there will be days that I will laugh and mean it. I'm holding on to the few things I have left that you can't take away.

The Golden Cage

So in continuing with the last post (personalities being the subject), I have been having a particularly hard time lately at staying focused on anything that isn't artistic. I've never really loved working in offices, but I've noticed that not long after the one year mark, I get antsy. At first, for the beginning 12 months or so, I am occupied enough to not notice the constantly nagging creative side because I am learning new things and that happens to be one of my favorite hobbies. I've always said I am good at a lot of things but not great at anything (with an emphasis on the second part, just in case there was a need arising to call me Narcissus). This is due to the fact that I truly do love learning new things, whether it is by reading or watching or doing, I pick up many fascinations that consume my brain for months at a time. Some last, some become a little less important, but either way I research the hell out of it before it gets set aside.

I know that one has to have a job or occupation that simply pays the bills, whether I like it or not, but it depresses me to no end. I wish constantly that I could have been lucky enough to write and create in the 40s or 50s or 60s when one could practically live on one's art (albeit modestly), even when poetry was the primary focus, which is completely unheard of now. Most poets aren't even known well by name, let alone lucky enough to make money off of it.

I keep trying to conform at least a little bit to make it easier on myself. But every time I head in a direction that requires some sort of mediocrity and/or boredom, I just keep fighting back with fists raised. Actually, as a result, much of my art reflects this mindset. I can't even count how many poems and lyrics etc. are about not wanting "the box", about striving to live some sort of Bohemian strain of a lifestyle in a technology soaked world. I feel like with every paper I file and every day I stare at a computer for 9 hrs, my soul shrinks and I won't be able to get it back.

My one relief in my day-to-day trudge is the fact that I have an Ipod glued into my ears for the majority of the duration of the day. I close my eyes and feel the bass line pulse through me and drum cymbals crash and resonate through my head and it is my only salve. I enter my fantasy world where I'm playing music 7 days a week, working to finish some great project with a handful of dedicated musicians. I sit in a studio, replaying previously recorded tracks and writing new parts to alter the last take. I travel and play in tiny cafes and large venues all over the world. And I just bask in it. A delicious wave of accomplishment washes over me and then I open my eyes to realize I am still in the suburbs in a tiny cube worrying about medical insurance and retirement funds.

I know it is silly to think that I could be one of the lucky few to play music and write stories & poems and just do that. Nothing else. To only worry about whether or not the muses smile upon me (which is already a constant worry) and to care nothing for 9-5 deadlines or broken printers. Every nerve and fiber in my body aches until I get the next taste of it- whether by playing a show, writing a new story or jamming in the studio. I'm like a junkie, perhaps, but it is the best kind of high, the orgasmic release of creative rush.

I may not be the best at any of it, but I feel like I have so much to offer if only I had the opportunity to do it and share it. It is in the core of me, it is the very nature of me... to take someone on a journey in their mind, so that maybe they too can leave their buzzing, tapping cubicles for their ten minute morning break shutdown.

Speaking of which, my break is up... so more on this later.

Personality

This is something I found really interesting that my friend Corinn introduced me to.
It helped me understand the way my mind works a little better.
I am a Type 4 (with a bit of a Type 5 leaning).
If you haven't heard of The Enneagram theory or taken the test, I encourage you to.
More on this subject later...

http://9types.com/


The Romantic (the Four)

Romantics have sensitive feelings and are warm and perceptive.


How to Get Along with Me

Give me plenty of compliments. They mean a lot to me.

Be a supportive friend or partner. Help me to learn to love and value myself.

Respect me for my special gifts of intuition and vision.

Though I don't always want to be cheered up when I'm feeling melancholy, I sometimes like to have someone lighten me up a little.

Don't tell me I'm too sensitive or that I'm overreacting!


What I Like About Being a Four

my ability to find meaning in life and to experience feeling at a deep level

my ability to establish warm connections with people

admiring what is noble, truthful, and beautiful in life

my creativity, intuition, and sense of humor

being unique and being seen as unique by others

having aesthetic sensibilities

being able to easily pick up the feelings of people around me


What's Hard About Being a Four

experiencing dark moods of emptiness and despair

feelings of self-hatred and shame; believing I don't deserve to be loved

feeling guilty when I disappoint people

feeling hurt or attacked when someone misundertands me

expecting too much from myself and life

fearing being abandoned

obsessing over resentments

longing for what I don't have


Fours as Children Often

have active imaginations: play creatively alone or organize playmates in original game s

are very sensitive

feel that they don't fit in

believe they are missing something that other people have

attach themselves to idealized teachers, heroes, artists, etc.

become antiauthoritarian or rebellious when criticized or not understood

feel lonely or abandoned (perhaps as a result of a death or their parents' divorce)


Fours as Parents

help their children become who they really are

support their children's creativity and originality

are good at helping their children get in touch with their feelings

are sometimes overly critical or overly protective

are usually very good with children if not too self-absorbed

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The Observer (the Five)


Observers have a need for knowledge and are introverted, curious, analytical, and insightful.


How to Get Along with Me

Be independent, not clingy.

Speak in a straightforward and brief manner.

I need time alone to process my feelings and thoughts.

Remember that If I seem aloof, distant, or arrogant, it may be that I am feeling uncomfortable.

Make me feel welcome, but not too intensely, or I might doubt your sincerity.

If I become irritated when I have to repeat things, it may be because it was such an effort to get my thoughts out in the first place.

don't come on like a bulldozer.

Help me to avoid my pet peeves: big parties, other people's loud music, overdone emotions, and intrusions on my privacy.


What I Like About Being a Five

standing back and viewing life objectively

coming to a thorough understanding; perceiving causes and effects

my sense of integrity: doing what I think is right and not being influenced by social pressure

not being caught up in material possessions and status

being calm in a crisis


What's Hard About Being a Five

being slow to put my knowledge and insights out in the world

feeling bad when I act defensive or like a know-it-all

being pressured to be with people when I don't want to be

watching others with better social skills, but less intelligence or technical skill, do better professionally


Fives as Children Often

spend a lot of time alone reading, making collections, and so on

have a few special friends rather than many

are very bright and curious and do well in school

have independent minds and often question their parents and teachers

watch events from a detached point of view, gathering information

assume a poker face in order not to look afraid

are sensitive; avoid interpersonal conflict

feel intruded upon and controlled and/or ignored and neglected


Fives as Parents

are often kind, perceptive, and devoted

are sometimes authoritarian and demanding

may expect more intellectual achievement than is developmentally appropriate

may be intolerant of their children expressing strong emotions

Self-Inflicted Writer's Block

I think I have imposed upon myself a sort of self-inflicted writer's block. I have been very limited as of late in my creative efforts towards my poetry and music. I believe I have developed some sort of deathly fear of succumbing to the illness of genius. That is not to say that I consider myself a genius, far from it. But it does not take a prodigy to understand the tide, the rush of momentary inspiration. It takes only one creation of any sort to know the sort of madness that the creative process can induce upon the individual through passion, obsession and addiction.


I am currently reading a book about just this disease- all the artist's that have died in some way for their art. Not in the sense that they have literally gone in front of a firing squad for the right of censorship or any other particularly valiant effort. Instead, each has self-medicated their constant need to create and be remembered, which in turn sucked the very life's breath out of their beings. In fact, most writers in particular that committed suicide or overdosed on their drug of choice did so before a new publication or after a bad review. They needed so badly to be accepted and yet could not accept the fame that followed. Or even worse, they could not handle the world not understanding their art. It was either too much praise or far too little, but either was crushing.

For as long as I have nourished my creative side, I have nursed a fear of going mad. There are times when my brain goes into cycles and processes that frighten me beyond my understanding. In the Enneagram's theory of the personality of a four (the romantic and artist, in which I scored extremely high as I did no other personality style), these very traits are laid out in such complex detail that I felt I could not have been understood any better. It was shattering to see that the things I could not explain or verbalize were there in print to say why I have so much difficulty functioning in everyday society. It has also led me to believe that many of these artists would easily fit into this category, which among the 9 personalities has the highest suicide rate. I think this has to do not with an upbringing or circumstances, but with the mind we were born with. Many of those that left notes before their demise mentioned something of their nerves or brains being impossible to cope with.

This is all very dark and dreary, I'm sure you will find, but I am not mentioning this to explain any sort of desire for death. Indeed, it is the exact opposite reason for which I write. I find such a kinship with these lost souls (when I read Sylvia Plath's journals, I felt as though much of her musings were plaigarized from my own unspoken, unwritten thoughts). It is for this very reason that I have found it difficult to create recently. Because I have understood the fever that overtake you when you hand moves of its own accord to bleed the ink onto the pages. I know the feeling of a convulsing brain, ill to retch out some possessive idea. There have been days, weeks, months where all I could do was write. It is like a drug, far more potent than any narcotic. Which makes it easy for me to understand all those who seek to escape through chemical means- it is a cheap relication of the creative process and it either fuels of kills it, either one being a sort of relief.

I have, on occassion, allowed myself a slip here and there to marry words together in a flowing union of ecstatic determination. But recently, it has been a much more logical process rather than organic. I am trying to find out what the mediam is between producing in a healthy manner and simply spilling it out from mental necessity. Today is the first day that I touched my piano in any other intention but self-loathing at my inability to produce what I heard in my head. It was the first time in months that I was able to coherently piece togther a few workable signs of a songs beginning. I feel at war with myself, always a contradiction for feeling like I was created to create and feeling like any constant creation will be my destruction. For to be honest and raw, it is required to unveil the sub-conscious and deep inner shadows. But lingering there too long will scar. I have a great fear of failure and a driving need to succeed, but am my own harshest critic. I never feel as though what I do produce is good enough or has any lasting value. But if I can find that place, to keep all sides of me at peace, there... there's the goal.

My Nirvana

Ever since I was little, one of my favorite places in all the world was a bookstore, any bookstore, really. Whether it was filled with Barnes & Noble commercialism or rare & antique collectibles, I could spend hours browsing and inhaling the soft paper and leather scents. There was something magical about the required hush and the rush of flipping pages. These places brought together the child & the adult, the conservative & the liberal, the mother & the feminist, the intellectuals and the masses.


It was like an eternal treasure hunt- a search to find a previously unearthed literary gem from a new author, a new genre, a different time in history, a different point of view, or most deliciously, a kinship. As opposed to all those times that I felt myself to be a black sheep or outcast, here amongst the poets and philosophers I found solace. A brethren of unique, yet shared minds. My brain and fingers stood ever ready, greedy even, for the next physical representation of an epiphany, a journey, an understanding.

Though I consider myself to enjoy all sorts of books, my favorites by far are the ones that ache with age. The ones with cracked, dusty spines and thick, stained pages. I have a not-so-obssession with discovering- and collecting- old books, the older the better. Most of the ones I currently possess are from the 19th century, a few from the early 20th century and one that has an origin completely unknown. It is so old that it has no publication date. It bewitches me every time I see it, because it is cloaked in mystery. And with all of these books that are centuries old, I desperately wonder into whose hands have they passed through. How many people have read and re-read and loved and memorized each line like a sacred mantra?

Some, aside from age or beauty, hold value in their content alone. There is a first-edition copy of Sylvia Plath's Colussus at a rare book room that haunts me. If I was able, I would gladly pay the steep $400 price tag for the possibility of somehow being closer to the author.
At times, it is a book as a whole that moves me, but more frequently, it is a chapter or paragraph alone that I MUST read and re-read, ingest and digest, over and over. A part of a chapter in Les Miserables that so exquisitely describes the priest's life and his relationship with nature & God. A chapter in A Happy Death (Camus) in which the main character analyzes his feelings towards his current lover with shocking and brutal honesty. It is a complete contradiction at times, with constant flashes of intense emotion. Things that we think, though never utter aloud are bled onto paper so that we cannot deny the resonance in our own lives. Sometimes it is even just a single line, though. Such as for me, Anne Sexton's, "I am the queen of all my sins forgotten."

Just a few words or sentences or paragraphs strung together in such perfection that it steals the breath from your lungs and makes you pine for genius to be found within yourself. To be remembered. To be adored. To change culture or ideas. To connect with even just one person across the span of centuries, or God-willing, millions of people. As Oscar Wilde said, "All art is quite useless." But beauty, or more aptly the manifestation of beauty through art is divine and noble- whether dark or bright, oridnary or extraordinary, haunted or inspired. Art, whether in a literary form or not, is how a generation is remembered & how a generation is changed.

Every time I browse the aisles of a bookstore I am reminded of all the lives & thoughts & sacrifices that are entangled on each shelf. Hundreds of years of people producing lasting and impacting words.

Reality?

There is reality. There is perceived reality. There is our reality. But what is real is only real because we say it's real, we are told it's real, we feel it's real or we learn/know it's real (which in fact is the often the same as being told it's real). We perceive and process in opposites. We know what is possible by what's impossible and vice versa. "Facts" are based on an overall consensus and a general belief. To prove something, often means it is just not known how to disprove it.

So how much of what is "impossible" is just so because we have limited our mental capabilities and set up strict boundaries and limitations? I don't mean this in an inspirational sense, but in a supernatural sense, but supernatural only because we do not understand it as natural or normal, not because it is in fact strange or super.

The term "faith like a child" applies to general life in this sense. Children believe and trust because of what is introduced to them in various forms of ideas. Their realiy is created out of the reality we know as adults. Before we have a hand in shaping them, they only have the limits that are immediately in front of them, not any abstract instances. They are limited only by their inexperience or inability (as they can sense it).

We are told things are "supernatural" because they are uncommon or inhuman. But how much of what we know as uncommon is that way because we have MADE it that way? How much of reality IS perception? How much of our world and our understanding of it is completely man-made? What are we truly capable of?

For example, there is the standard phrases "the sky is blue" or "your hair is long". They are so, because we have deemed certain terms to represent colors and measurements. So really, when we say "the sky is blue" we are saying "the sky is the hue we have deemed it, but not truly even that is true, because it APPEARS to exist as a color that we have named, when in fact it depends on where you are in the universe.". No phrase or idea or "fact" is ever simple. Everything we "know" and say is loaded, as an answer and a question. And as has been said before, everything is an argument.

It seems to me, it is all open to interpretation and it is all what we make it.

The Jar is Ringing

I see having pressing, insistent needs as a weakness. And yet not having that which I have deemed necessary renders me ill. I have a fear of being vulnerable, of having human tendencies. I try to shut off my emotions, but I am not wired to do so. Not just because it is mentally impossible, but because as an artist, it is logistically impossible. It is a constant ebb and flow. I need to create therefore I need to feel and experience. I need to feel and experience therefore I need to create. I have a greedy desire to dissect the unknown both in myself and in the outside world. I want to know history and present, life and death, though and action... I want to know the human process as intricately as it is possible to know it from the biased position in which I stand. I cannot know things as others would. My circumstance and childhood and lifestyle keep it from being so.


But there is so much I can learn. Every tiny little detail in the most mundane and seemingly insignificant shadow of an existence. I crave knowledge, yet I fear it with every aging bone in my body. Ignorance can indeed be bliss, though a life left unlived as well. But some things, the shifting, creaking blackness that inhabits our world... they can be better left unfound. Things can not be unlearned. They burrow into your brain, leaving cigarette burns on the surface and gaping wounds not far below. There is so much of human nature that is almost unfathomable. It can be truly frightening and at the same time awe strikingly beautiful all bound up in the same person.

I wonder sometimes how long I can carry this burden. The burden of one who has seen too much, but not nearly enough. Of one that is driven to create, but so wearied from daily toils that I have nothing left to give back. My mind is a labryinth of contradictions and slayed demons. It is a maze of torment and blinding sunshine. I love so deeply, but try at all costs to restrain it before it destroys me. The universe is vast, but mine is not. It is a silvery bubble that ripples and floats above... it is only a matter of time.