the art of eating crow
sometimes i sit to the computer with only the vaguest of ideas what i will write.
but the urgency is there. i am compelled. i must brandish it like a sword. i must channel gods and devils into the written word. i must rip it from me like a cancerous growth, free then to scatter it like ashes of the dead.
the road to hell is paved with good intentions. i demand more time from the gods, and all my good intentions would cease to be cobblestones, but would become the very lacework of the golden heavens.
only the powers that be, in their chariots of fire, will know the depth of my frustrations. only they will know how many times i have hung my head, have slumped my shoulders, have gritted my teeth against the very futility that is ofttimes life.
they will grant me amnesty. they will pay off charon. they will drain the styx. they will burn the stubble of elysium.
they will pore over the tomes. they will convene. they will discuss at great length.
they will look into our eyes, o beloved readers, and know that the intentions were honest and pure. our hearts will read like books written in flowing brushstrokes of deepest ebony upon the finest rice paper. we have only and ever meant the best, not just for ourselves, but for those around us, our family, our friends, even the very same who may have slighted us, or caused us harm.
we are imperfectly made. will not the gods grant us perfection? or is the chip in the fine china cause to cast aside the plate? to dash it to smithereens?
my chips are beautiful. each small fragment, each hairline crack a testament to my attempts to fulfil my destiny. each a small, crooked white line across my hands a promise made and kept, an attempt to complete tasks. the beauty of each is in the chips and imperfections.
such were we made by the gods, and so shall the gods accept us as such.
darth sardonic
but the urgency is there. i am compelled. i must brandish it like a sword. i must channel gods and devils into the written word. i must rip it from me like a cancerous growth, free then to scatter it like ashes of the dead.
the road to hell is paved with good intentions. i demand more time from the gods, and all my good intentions would cease to be cobblestones, but would become the very lacework of the golden heavens.
only the powers that be, in their chariots of fire, will know the depth of my frustrations. only they will know how many times i have hung my head, have slumped my shoulders, have gritted my teeth against the very futility that is ofttimes life.
they will grant me amnesty. they will pay off charon. they will drain the styx. they will burn the stubble of elysium.
they will pore over the tomes. they will convene. they will discuss at great length.
they will look into our eyes, o beloved readers, and know that the intentions were honest and pure. our hearts will read like books written in flowing brushstrokes of deepest ebony upon the finest rice paper. we have only and ever meant the best, not just for ourselves, but for those around us, our family, our friends, even the very same who may have slighted us, or caused us harm.
we are imperfectly made. will not the gods grant us perfection? or is the chip in the fine china cause to cast aside the plate? to dash it to smithereens?
my chips are beautiful. each small fragment, each hairline crack a testament to my attempts to fulfil my destiny. each a small, crooked white line across my hands a promise made and kept, an attempt to complete tasks. the beauty of each is in the chips and imperfections.
such were we made by the gods, and so shall the gods accept us as such.
darth sardonic
posted by darth sardonic at 12:35 PM
2 Comments:
mmmmm ... yes
ty lara
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