Goddesses and Others

I find myself coming to the realization that I do not believe in love. And without that, what else is left?

I find my self lovable, I simply do not believe in the love our generation is so set on. Something glamerous and commercial where even the fights are heightened and extravagant. Something that makes even the most hated aspects of someone shiny and bright and tolerable. A Hollywood sort of love. There will always be something you cannot tolerate, cannot forgive. It is niave to think that your vision of love will erase that. It wont and you're being foolish.

I want to write my memoirs if only because there is so much I want to say and no proper outlet for it. I can't deny that I live vicariously through the fictional characters that I create. The shadiest and darkest of which only see the dim light of reality through this partcular outlet.

There's a strong woman with a decent story in there somewhere. There has to be. It isn't me, but I cling to the hope that it is someone I can model myself after.

I sink like a porous stone, slow and full, like the discovery of some hesitant new species.

What is it about pain that inspires creation?
What suffering must our gods have faced to shed
such life-bearing tears?
Madness surely provokes Art.
And so,
with glowing rod of personal torture
pressing into my Temples,
blood speaks
and makes
volumes of the times of men.
Thru insanity,
elevation,
before the End.