Chrysanthemums
"You were pulled from the wreckage of your silent reverie..."
The fount for this brain-poison remains a mystery. Still I have trouble sleeping; still I grapple with waking reality and those challenges posed -- once as easy hurdles, now as Titan-wrought rock ranges -- in ways that make me want to sob. Still I find that words escape me like so many rarified and fluttering things. Perhaps I've lost my muse. Perhaps I've lost any semblance of talent I once had.
"I am destroyed by the inside.
I disassociate.
I hope to destroy the ouside...
It will alleviate and elevate me."
What about the panacea...the cure? Does one exist for something so nebulous, so unsubstantial? And what about notions just like heaven? I can't find a phrase that would quench an unsettled maw's thirst for what-once-was...
posted by Ophelia at 6:58 PM
2 Comments:
Semblance of talent? I think you are misspeaking. For you have (note the tense) great talent.
But I know the fear. The fear of having lost the “it,” the thing that make you feel what you write is worth the while.
I combat it by saying “Every thing I write is worth the while!!!” And it is, for in writing we authors are bring the voices and the world in our minds in to the physical world. Even if it is just for our selves or an audience of three, it is worth the doing. We dare to take on the role of God, the one with the big “g” by our acts of creation. We dare “after teas, and cakes and ices” to push the moment to its crises.
By our will, the world gains meaning.
Matt
So damn distant.
Damn.
"The side of man least shown/
The life of light least known/
Is it what we strive for/
Or simply an end to the storm/"
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