I am standing in the rubble once again, knee deep in ecstasies unfulfilled and daily drama that sucks the life out of my soul. Overhead the stars gleam into my mind’s eye, reaching into me, blinding me with a wretched foresight unperturbed; a forward thinking that fills me with dread. Overhead, a fortnight, a dusky dark blue sky on top of me singing with Osiris and Isis dancing through a stream of light and dark living. As am I, with my life destructions, calmly perturbing me once again.
A new diagnosis, a new medication, a new opinion, a new TV show, a new recipe, a new test result and a new creative work bringing forth a renewed fault which quakes with renewed anxiety; so deep, so dense that I can only breathe for a moment before a knowing is my only hope with the settling of dust telling me that I hope you’re creative, friend, because life has destroyed itself once again.
I am thinking too hard, too deeply, too friendly, now, and so loving that my loving heart bursts in my head. I am into hateful signs from an abyss that is so dark and so confusing that I cannot see my own reflection looking deep into my death and every other process that would fascinate me to no end. My brain is so craving for a crying, that no painting, a bad painting, with no principle of thirds or color coordination could bring sadness to my pain; a sadness gone for three days, for a few days of relaxed mourning, only a peaceful co-existence in my head.
So I create from the rubble again further from the fear, further from the dread and further from the self-loathing without shouting angry abysmal, motherfucking hate streams of guttural dark verbiage at the Lord, My God who wrestles with me, silently, my friend, wrestles me because I cannot lose against myself my, universal creator of the universe because my courage is my victory, because my love is for you. But that’s my love, not yours. You are so perfect that I can’t stand the thought of you, nothing changes and never hoping.
Beautiful creations fall still-birth with no writing, no painting, no nothing coherent, not even Osiris vanquishing without temperament, just a zeal for his living, routine night and day, no morning breakfast, no digital surfing, and re-reading work and re-reading politics and rethinking this and that and then overeating with an old episode from a finger-licking good idea from a place nowhere close to here, I hope. That can fit here and there and nowhere. When will destruction come again?
If you’re reading this, I hope you’re creative, friend. I hope the creative mess is there again, in your head, the sub-cranium la-la-land in your mind. Your mess will be right where you left it, wanted it, succumbed to it and used it because now you can live without knowing your true calling. Many more excuses and many more exercises of complaint, and a bad everything – painting, writing, drawing, photos – everything, because now you have re-realized destruction as your friend.