my hands are raw from carving all day. taking a much-needed break from the studio... only 72 hours until my review. last night i resigned myself to the fact i was going to fall short. but something won't let me give up entirely...
i will always be screaming, at the last minute, into the storm, drowned out but too hysterical to notice that the words are being swept off as soon as they are born. and i tell myself every day that i am on the verge of something; and i go to sleep crestfallen, defeated, always tense and reaching out... striving towards... something greater than this ... this something half-conceived, faulty and destined to fail... to break down... to be swept away like crumbling clay.
and every day i move with jerks and sobs towards the end. the end of what, i am not sure- a phrase in my head, something i saw or heard- all things move towards there end- and in quasi-tragic righteousness i clutch my self-created doom like a weapon, an avatar, a losing hand of cards... and sometimes i can revel in it, as if it were not my life at all but a drama constructed for my amusement; but sometimes i am hit head-on by the foolishness of anything pre-destined... struck dumb by the pointlessness of any thought or action... and it is on days like that when i want to give up.
but today. no...
i will meet my demons face to face, and race towards the end, if there must be an end, with the pride and anger of a scorned prophet... i will show them, i say, vengeful and self-important.
but i won't.
i will just keep screaming into the darkness, into the building black tower of clouds on the horizon. and as they loom, i will know that all this is a cycle, a hobbling manifestation of my disease... and i will know but i will be powerless to stop myself from assuming these roles. and it will continue, on and on, for as long as i live.
i will always be screaming, at the last minute, into the storm, drowned out but too hysterical to notice that the words are being swept off as soon as they are born. and i tell myself every day that i am on the verge of something; and i go to sleep crestfallen, defeated, always tense and reaching out... striving towards... something greater than this ... this something half-conceived, faulty and destined to fail... to break down... to be swept away like crumbling clay.
and every day i move with jerks and sobs towards the end. the end of what, i am not sure- a phrase in my head, something i saw or heard- all things move towards there end- and in quasi-tragic righteousness i clutch my self-created doom like a weapon, an avatar, a losing hand of cards... and sometimes i can revel in it, as if it were not my life at all but a drama constructed for my amusement; but sometimes i am hit head-on by the foolishness of anything pre-destined... struck dumb by the pointlessness of any thought or action... and it is on days like that when i want to give up.
but today. no...
i will meet my demons face to face, and race towards the end, if there must be an end, with the pride and anger of a scorned prophet... i will show them, i say, vengeful and self-important.
but i won't.
i will just keep screaming into the darkness, into the building black tower of clouds on the horizon. and as they loom, i will know that all this is a cycle, a hobbling manifestation of my disease... and i will know but i will be powerless to stop myself from assuming these roles. and it will continue, on and on, for as long as i live.
glamerdork:
ouch
kudra:
I don't know that I would say I practice Vodou...I think it is the most pure religion and there are aspects of it that I incorporate into what I consider to be my religion. But I don't read much on it, I just go with the energy I get off of certain aspects. If I were going to subscribe to any organized religion fully, this would be it. I'm about to get the veve for the other Ezili tattoed over my heart shaped implant on my forearm