A mind split between a paved, clean, road of security and a more desired, yet turbulent path. I walked this winding, vanishing road before; but lost it.
I was left impaled; bones cracked, spirit decayed. Each time I traversed the cracking road I wished, I would be crushed, it would be a mirage, or an enemy. Still. I return to it. Either to emerge a fool or a champion.
We’re the universe bending into marvelous structures.
Forms which attained dissonance consequent of elevated consciousness.
A disconnected senselessness misplaced, but never lost.
It took me several versions, but I eventually ended up at this one. I quite like how she turned out. Still flaws, and I made continue refining her, but for the time being, I’m content. ❤
There is always this constant nagging.
I was a fragment of consciousness; lost somewhere in memory of misadventure and ignorance.
In a constant state of introversion; ignorant to the significance my dearest held for me.
And though I’ve changed; I’m still a fragment of consciousness living in the past.
Five rejection letters and the novelty has dulled. (I’ve sent many more, but only have gotten few responses) Now comes the greater endeavor: enduring the rejections soon to come. To withstand the doubt that will laminate my perception. However, should I armor myself, perhaps I’ll survive long enough to stumble upon an agent that sees my work’s value.
Otherwise, I’ll disband from this quest, and my work either collects dust, or enters commercial dominion through my own unaided efforts. Where, it will be for the public to praise or ridicule, without myself having knowledge of it’s worth from the eyes of an agent or publisher.
Either reality may come to pass, however, I do hope my original goal sees fruition. After-all, recourse is never attractive after witnessing your failure.
Less chipper than I’d like, but the point of this is to let my thoughts come out.
I’ll have to work on devising something more charming to write. Or discover some sort of unique quality I might posses that I can share with others.
The chaos that dwells within my mind must remain, lest I bore those I love.
It is a truth upon which I continually stumble. Frustrating, but understandable. But, frustrating. As I have scarce output for the things going on inside my mind. It builds alienation, loneliness.
People don’t care about my book, nor my characters. They aren’t interested in mythical constructs I’ve made nor the conflicts or deaths. And it’s just a fact I have to live with.
These characters and events within my mind will annoy only me, until I finally, possibly, find an audience who shares an interest; a connection. And then, they too can be annoyed by these fictional people.
Hoo boy, my mind and spirit are spiraling into creative dormancy! Must be all that obsessing over my novel and agents business. Nightmares I tell you!