Midnight

The Nightshade Princess
2002-12-28 06:30:15 (UTC)

crematorium

After death, the life of a writer, a poet, an artist,
goes through a sort of cremation. The flesh, that which is
the main part of existance, is burned away or vaporized by
the eager flame. All that is left, the bone and ash that
are what he has created and the memories that are left
behind (respectively), are neaty scraped into a small
container and placed on a shelf for posterity. I feel that
when I die, when that process is applied to me, only then
will I be recognized, as Poe after his death, as Sylvia
Plath after hers.
I sifted through the cremated remains of a life,
picked through it with my eyes in only a few short hours.
The autopsy of the soul... how long shall it take? When
all is said and done, when I am weighed and sorted,
remembered or forgotten or never known, what shall remain?
Is any of this worth the pain? We die for our art, feeling
that death dig its icy claws into our souls even as we
struggle for the life we do not desire. We bleed through
our hands, our lips, eyes and voices.... for what?
I could get help but I wouldn't be any happier. I am
what I have become, and like the thorny rose vines that
have grown so as to intertwine inextricably with the
trellis, my pain is a part of me. It is what drives me to
create, and lends purpose to my days. I would lie down
forever on the dry, brown grass of life were not the demon
chasing me, forcing me to motion instead of pointless,
motionless existance.
Getting help is like getting plastic surgery. It's
trendy and inevitably looks fake. These people rave about
how this or that doctor helped them make a "wonderful
change," but the bones stick out and the face is a mask.
The smile is just too fake. Psychology is just the art of
self-delusion. Everyone else around you can see right
through those new clothes, emperor. Wake and admit you've
been deceived, but don't get me started on the medicine.




Ad: