Garble

by theaudiencespeaks

It isn’t all about fun and happiness. It is about contrast and meaning, and life in all its messiness, existing in the uncaring and indifferent universe ever revolving on. Jabbering into the void, futilely projecting dreams and ideas nakedly outward to be garbled in the distance between transmitter and receiver, degraded to mere fluctuations in the material world just as they leave the mind. I apologize to my invisible muses for the abuses I heaped against them, stifling them for the sake of sanity and weariness and feelings of inadequacy. I am ashamed at how poor a tool I am to carry out the inspirations that pour into me. I fall asleep to new symphonies I know I can never hear again simply because I lack skill to recreate them. I tread work, suffocating beneath the deluge of ideas, inventions, dreams and possibilities that I feel powerless to actualize. Only occasionally do I surface enough to gasp and flail and sputter and sink, making little progress in any direction. I am trapped in an eddy, a whirlpool caused by the stirring of the Gods, or by serotonin. Solid ground eludes me and every time I think I catch a glimpse of it I get taken for a turn again only to see a different more promising shore. I know not whether curse or blessing is my lot to have an abundance of creative thought. I suppose curse or blessing is merely what I make of it.

Inspiration is not in short order, it is motivation that I lack. Motivation to overcome the barriers that separate inspiration and creation. Barriers like fear, weakness, ignorance, timing, scarcity and distraction are my bane. Should I be realistic? Optimistic? Pessimistic? Is there proper balance to the trichotomy? Or is it, as the monk says, a question wrongly asked? Should the barriers stop me? Should I give up continually in search of a cause worth my time? What if that search has no termination? Is it better to sit still and focus, or always be pursuing something? Perhaps in the indifferent universe there is no answer? And thus the question becomes, not what is, but what you choose. What do I choose? I choose contrast and meaning. I choose the whirlpool and the gasping and sputtering. But I choose, for now at least, optimist, not realist, not pessimist, damn the barriers and damn the torpedoes. My fears shall not choose for me, nor my ignorance, nor my weakness. I have the time and space, and now the resources are at my fingertips. Raw white space to be filled with nothing more than empty exercise. The excrement of practice, the messiness of life. Raw, unfiltered, unrevised, un-translated, for your viewing displeasure. For now I’m back, and bringing you the product of my madness filled boredom. The painful empty hours between the bursts of excitement and pleasure.

The Audience

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