Midnight

The Nightshade Princess
2002-12-23 04:41:37 (UTC)

To bleed afresh...

Far too much time has elapsed between my last entry
and this one for me to bridge the gap. I won't even try.
I still don't feel safe in my own fucking home. I've had
enough of my paranoia. I would feel a great deal more
comfortable if my mother would hear my plea and change the
fucking locks. I beg her constantly. Locks are not
expensive, nor are they difficult to assemble in their
proper place. My father DOES have a key. WHY is she being
so goddamned complacent? I'm not afraid of death. I never
have been. However, my feelings toward painful ordeal are
not positive.
I have spent 4 hours or so reading the journals of
Kurt Cobaine. Damn.. He had a very strong political
opinion at times. It was fascinating but a little sad to
read them, for I know more fully now what was lost. As I
caressed each page with my eyes, I grew more enlightened,
and more sad, finally feeling the painful passion of anger
growing inside me like the fetal beginnings of a terrible
beast. I had just read most of the surviving records of
one burning artist's life. That was it. In 4 hours, I had
devoured and understood all that was left of one person.
So this is what it means to be a legend, to live on in the
memories of those who've been left behind? What have we
but a few dead shards of paper to tell the tale, when words
are so unwieldly. All that was recorded can be ingested in
an absurdly short amount of time.
A honey bee produces only about a tablespoon of honey
in its lifetime. So it is with artists. We experience and
create... we suffer and bleed... for what? All my literary
life could fill a single small volume, and all that I write
and perform is all that is ever going to be useful from my
life. It strikes me so heavily that the sum total
experiences of a single life fill only a few hours of our
time. Is this to be my destiny?
After our deaths, we who create art and literature and
music (which are often one and the same), pass through the
fires to become only pure, white bone and dust? All that is
not useful is purged in the flames, and the rest is scooped
neatly into little volumes to be stored on a shelf for
posterity. I only hope that it's worth the pain.