2004-07-21
Destroyed
Destroyed. Threats made to myself by dark phantasms of hate amalgamated by my own inner turmoil. My story--a work of three years--has been destroyed. By me.
I created it for all the wrong reasons. Reaching out for some intangible glory in attempting to create something seemingly worthwhile, but in essence, empty. Worthless. I have banished all of those words out of existence, because I made a mistake--they weren�t all painstakingly dug out from the bloodstained depths of my soul. I would be a whore to continue with this--to create something that I wish to publish one day. No. I want to create something that is an extension of myself--my soul and every tingling swirling emotion bound together by strings, expressed through dried ink, kept within the fragile and temporary confines of paper.
The men that I have forever admired--Mozart, Chopin, Beethoven, Tchaikovsky, Stravinsky, Haydn--have created extensions of themselves. And destroying my own work is not something that particularly bothers me, but it is the attempt at clearing the way for something more.
This was started too far back, before I even knew myself, even. And I tried to follow rules. Correct grammar and punctuation, but I realised that pure emotion knows no boundaries.
It was expression, but conveyed in the wrong way.
What it really should be.
Too many images of the clear world before you hitting you at once. Haunting. Experiences, feelings, thoughts being recalled subconsciously at midnight, tears, the feel of a pen--I should strive for the perfect consanguinity binding all of these things. Every step taken--gravel underneath the sole of your shoes--pebbles dancing about, sun glaring down on your eyes, the murmur of one�s heart deep inside your chest--expressed--like a tidal wave hitting the paper. This is exactly the place for run-ons and other atrocities. This is the place for scribbles and many, many mistakes.
Waking up the past several mornings--groggy and tangled in the white and stringy haze of my sleep--I see that beauty lies within imperfection. Imperfection is reality. Weakness. Flaw. Perfection is the ultimate form of conventionality.
Destroyed.