Why I Write #

Human have ever strived to remove biology from logic, the logical man- but man is more than his logic, but he is his biology too.

In a way, this is to say, I write to contend with my logic, for what is a dualistic and calculative view of the world but that of the machine man.

I believe we desire to not be machine, cog, gear, pawn or king- though this is wishful thinking to rub a lamp and ask for idyllics.

I write because I am tortured by my irrationality. How everything and nothing can be compromised.

Within compromise exists noxious duality that disgusts the blackbird- I flutter as a bird to the better berry.

The berry of chaos- that dionysian spirit that I consume the fruit, and make it fruit less in the nature of Apollo.

To petrify its beauty within the failed confines of language. Is there any beauty in language? Or is it a beauty within lyrical composition? To be a bardic storyteller?

Truly even the red rust of time renders all machine men to the discarded waste- but what of the inauthentic self?

Where truly is the authentic self? Sunk under a myriad realities and pragmatisms as the titanic wreck?

For what a writer is, is futile biologic- a revolting mess of internal hypocrisy, wit, whimsy and the mute symbolism of a muse.

What muse? The amusing muse of bemusement at what decreptitude we find ourselves in?

Truly I tell you, that even those who produced the inspired word of God, found the inspired word of a muse.

And with her bought inspiration, conjured fantastical phantasms that are as fleeting as the notes of an organ.

I write, as it's the enterprise of bought inspiration- perhaps I may sell you ideas.

Ideas that spark a flame. The dull flame of desire choked by all the darkness, ash and misery.

A darkness matched only by the blackbirds feathers. It's departing wings sputtering what heavenly sounds only peace may buy.

But the cost of peace, is sold inspiration- and the cost of war is bought inspiration.

To declare war upon a world sunk and shallow- and in buying inspiration- we buy at the cost of our shadow like poor old Peter Schlemihl!

We become enemies to ourselves in befriending the Devil- for the details of inspiration are ratified in a contract, and inspiration bought by the gold sack of Fortunatus.

And in private confession, we can right wrongs- as priest and prayer together.

To give up writing, and depart as white doves upon dover.

To write is a shameful occupation, borne as a choking phoenix, drowning in ash.

A shameful occupation of devouring the dove and blackbird, and in their venomous duality, choking.

What chokes, cannot breathe, cannot drown, cannot focus and cannot flutter- thrashed and trashed.

The cost of irrationality and poor dying biology.

Published on 2023/11/05