Madness overcomes me. I have not made
anyone cry. Or sing along. Nor have they
cheered, for themselves, through the works I
have created. I have not enlightened nor
caused as much rejoicing as one firework. One
mediocre pop song. What have I been doing?
How misguided can a person be?
What has all of my time been spent
creating? In the end I am jealous of even
those whose goal is no more than rooting for
a winning team, of those who snowmobile in
circles. I have hung my happiness on too
high a hook for my height. This pantomime
form I possess has only a shard inside. What
misery it is to have sold oneself for low a price.
Worth, being determined by the
marketplace, is a fair meter. A meter which
I have not moved. My energies are dissipated
in a great void more vast than I had
imagined. My talents a wisp my message less
than a footnote. My shadow seems more real
than my form. Not worthy of an early death I
will age. An ageing which will deliver
corruption in stead of character.
If I decide tonight to change all this it will
not matter. The die is cast. Time will allow
me deceptions in order to stave off
annihilation. I will always recognize them
as such, and cowardice will allow me to
accept them, and encourage me to move on.