Symbolism plays an important role in my life. It encapsulates my worldview. It helps define where I've been, where I'm going and how I need to get or leave there.
This entry is about playing with symbols and playing with words. At one time I imagined myself a visual storyteller. I've been bouncing idea after idea around trying to find the right story to tell and often finding my ability to translate it visually or in words lacking. This is one reason I struggle so fervently against the symbols that comprise my world.
I'm an idealist. Someone who believes easily and trusts handily. When I commit, my default mode is to trust. That doesn't mean I'm blind to deception or unwary, its just that I usually don't spend cycles (bandwidth, time, energy, whatever your 'nom de guerre" for effort of thought) wondering where I am in the great game.
Maybe this makes me simple. Maybe this makes me weak. In the end it makes me who I am, and who I want to be. I bought into all the mythology of mankind. I swallowed whole the childish innocence that we so often lose as we age. I want to take people at their word. I want to be the best I can be. I want to prove myself every day and I want to overcome my doubts through noble efforts.
Life isn't really this simple, or so I've been told. Its about the great game. Its about procreation of life, thought and power. Transfer and exchange. Respiration and expiration. Its not a noble endeavor. Its not a whimsical adventure full of bold heroes and witty knaves. But oh, how I want to believe it is. Oh, how I want to make it so.
I believe this is why I do the things I do. Why I fight so hard against the everyday needs of life for that fantasy life I once dreamt to occupy and why that struggle leaves me tattered and bleeding after each effort. Yet each scar left on my soul brings me closer to the reality of expression.
Dreamers. Hopeless fools. Sycophants of promise. The muse is the cruelest of mistresses. She smiles and sings with beckoning promise. Her inspiration brings forth the lust of the artist, the primal energy that consumes and subsumes their world, if even for mere moments.
Then, like the fickle bitch she is, she withdraws her favor and curls back into the dark recesses of the mind. Leaving an impression, a taste of the original drive as she treads back toward her private retreat. Each touch, lighter and more insidious with the knowledge that her attention is fleeting.
This constant push and pull, the tease and taunt leaves me frustrated.
She returns at her whim and often at the most inconvenient of times. She begs a sacrifice of her suplicant. When offered, she greedily consumes and grants a boon. When refused, she torments and flays her subject with abandon until the price is paid and the high is spent.
Crude words, rough strokes and faint returns her only gift. Until at last the creator abandons the art or surrenderes completely to her sport.