Saturday, November 20, 2010

the end will not be narrated

Curiosity has enormous round eyes and towering pointy ears which perk with interest at all going on in the world. Curiosity is never sated, never stops finding something new to take delight in.

Delight is a fat beam of sunlight curling a a living mobius like an ADHD eel.

Desire has short arms and short fingers. Desire reaches for things just beyond its grasp, but it can see them, it knows with only a little work it can change the position of the world and have what it wants. Desire is never sated, never lets its arms drop, never stops yearning.

Fury is fists and a mouth that never closes and so the roar never ends. Fury is constantly battered and beaten by that which gives rise to it, and as it defeats that which has woken it so it slays itself. Fury doesn't want to die. Fury can't help itself.

I can anthropomorphise character traits till you get bored and stop reading. Hope is a tortoise and fear is an elephant. Resolution is the bug on the windshield that no amount of speed will blow away.

None of these entities want to die. They don't fight back. Most of them don't know they're dying at all. But when I hold them under they don't stay down. I can't keep them down.

What I fear is depression. It's a perfectly rational fear to have all things considered, but I let it affect me in an irrational way. I've cut people out of my life not because they were going to do anything that would send me back there, but because I couldn't trust myself not to use them to send myself there. There are whole countries of conversation I won't visit because they call on memories that may sit next to other memories I don't want to visit. I fear depression and so by proxy I fear all things that may lead to it.

It is only logical that I then cleave to those things which combat it. "Being awesome" is about as WMD as you can get without prescription medication. In this case, the awesomeness is entirely internal. The space my mind occupies is immense and ridiculous and so much bigger than me; I have made it that way. I have made it so that even when my head is full of poison and horror it is still breath-taking and glorious. Everything I consume as thought-food, all the experiences and trials I put myself through, the rewards and punishments I vest upon myself, all of them become architecture, amazingly intricately stupidly illogically whimsically viciously laying out new ground. Be glorious. This is all I need to keep myself alive.

The character traits are my hunters, catching pieces of the world and laying new foundations.

I fear the damage I do to myself by continuing to push on. I fear the damage I do to myself when I strangle my voice.

They're different paths to the same destination. I do not like what I am becoming.

It doesn't matter how I anthropomorphise these character traits, how much distance I put between myself and the violence I wreak upon them. I can build walls of detail, personality and symbolism into their being. It doesn't matter. It makes no difference. In the end there is only me, murderer and victim and crying for both.

Written at 19:54 on 16 August 2010

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