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And Julian says I cannot write.
Jul. 4th, 2012 10:43 pm Let me introduce you to what has prompted my introspection as of late.
One dull and elaborate inquisition which has shaken me from point of arrival here is the very nature of my existence. You have heard of fictionality and creation and the very utterences of your own God-like being now framed as one's "author". The question is- or, at the very least, for my own pressing need it is- what, then, does my own existence play upon the owned words on the page? Let us think, for example, of an example; or rather readily, utilise my own living conditions for the sake of this short-writ article.
I am, in every sense of the word, destined to die in war. That is to say the two potentialities which open themselves to me as drawn-out insufferable predictions of my future are as such: 1, that I am to grow up in some manner 'till the beginnings of the 20th century and find myself drawn in - or rather employed - to the ranks of the First World War (helped so much by the immortality which my portrait bears upon me) and thus die over-and-over again 'till I am sick of it all and fraught with tender disease, or, 2, that in bearance with my own novel "The Picture of Dorian Gray" I am to murder myself out of vanity and bitterness and stupidity. Now, does my knowledge of the two of these create such a rift in the crafting of creation that I am no longer forced to apply to either? I can, after all, happily ignore the calling to war and my own once upon a time nonsense-belief that a murder of my painting would cure my incurable disease. Would that, then, help me? Would I be free to live my life as is, to use my own foxish methods and escape?- or am I, by my very fictional nature, doomed to a fate that has been writ before my living?
It is a terrible thing to plague me so often, but it does and I find myself incapable of stopping it. Why does it turn 'round in my brain? Why says it to me that I am not real, when it is that which is mere possibility and, besides, rather incredible to believe? I don't know. I don't know of what reason or rhyme may play fool to the progression of my life; how, then, should I live it? Carefree, finding neither to be relevant or- indeed, as it is now- worrying endlessly on my eventual ending?
Tu-rut tut tut. The trumpets of battle warn me away; and that Devilish maze, my face, my playground of fierce sins, calls me to clinging mortality. Shall I die?
One dull and elaborate inquisition which has shaken me from point of arrival here is the very nature of my existence. You have heard of fictionality and creation and the very utterences of your own God-like being now framed as one's "author". The question is- or, at the very least, for my own pressing need it is- what, then, does my own existence play upon the owned words on the page? Let us think, for example, of an example; or rather readily, utilise my own living conditions for the sake of this short-writ article.
I am, in every sense of the word, destined to die in war. That is to say the two potentialities which open themselves to me as drawn-out insufferable predictions of my future are as such: 1, that I am to grow up in some manner 'till the beginnings of the 20th century and find myself drawn in - or rather employed - to the ranks of the First World War (helped so much by the immortality which my portrait bears upon me) and thus die over-and-over again 'till I am sick of it all and fraught with tender disease, or, 2, that in bearance with my own novel "The Picture of Dorian Gray" I am to murder myself out of vanity and bitterness and stupidity. Now, does my knowledge of the two of these create such a rift in the crafting of creation that I am no longer forced to apply to either? I can, after all, happily ignore the calling to war and my own once upon a time nonsense-belief that a murder of my painting would cure my incurable disease. Would that, then, help me? Would I be free to live my life as is, to use my own foxish methods and escape?- or am I, by my very fictional nature, doomed to a fate that has been writ before my living?
It is a terrible thing to plague me so often, but it does and I find myself incapable of stopping it. Why does it turn 'round in my brain? Why says it to me that I am not real, when it is that which is mere possibility and, besides, rather incredible to believe? I don't know. I don't know of what reason or rhyme may play fool to the progression of my life; how, then, should I live it? Carefree, finding neither to be relevant or- indeed, as it is now- worrying endlessly on my eventual ending?
Tu-rut tut tut. The trumpets of battle warn me away; and that Devilish maze, my face, my playground of fierce sins, calls me to clinging mortality. Shall I die?
