3. this world is mad and i am mad to live in it.
When I started making my writing public it produced (invoked?) some curious reactions.
One reaction, the biggest one, was people I knew started to comment on how talented they thought I was. Or more specifically, "I didn't know you could write."
Another I got (get) was (is), "You're writing is very confusing. I don't understand it at all."
There was also a couple, "God, that's what the world needs is more pretentious crap masquerading itself as literature or art."
I had never set out to impress, cause indifference, or anger anyone. You know, I hardly ever ask what anyone thinks of my writing, mainly because I don't really care. I mean, that's not completely true because I really appreciate when someone enjoys it. I also appreciate it when someone has valid or constructive criticism, because I'd like to think I'm not above looking at myself objectively.
I hope you understand my sincerity when I say that I appreciate it all.
So why was I doing this journal? It was started out of curiosity and boredom, but when it boils down to it... when you stare at the meat and guts of this journal, it is really a kind-of fictionalized documentation of my pain, sorrow and an emptiness that drove me to self-destruction, or occasional (sometimes well-meaning) madness. It was a journal about the mercurial, often terrible, in-between state of consciousness and dreams or nightmares that I seemed to reluctantly inhabit.
It was all real but it was a story, too.
Recently I began to not feel it anymore, so I tried to change some things but I've noticed I inevitably return to the same theme. A dream -- a powerful dream. A dream so close to actualizing that it collapses under the weight of reality, crushing him. And the pain, feeling so... cheated, it drives Johnny to madness again. Nothing is or was as it seemed.
Why must it always return to this for me?
She told me I write beautiful things. So why are my words never enough to keep or save Her love? If it is so beautiful... I mean have you actually read what I write? It is always full of discomfited anger and venomous, vitriolic prose. What I write isn't beautiful, it's ugly on the inside. It's full of jagged wounds that bleed out into the gutter, racing to join the rest of the filth floating in the sewer.
This is the only rhetoric I am able to sustain and why should I be surprised. It all started to take shape around a shattered heart and a pathetic, miserably failed dream. When things started to change though... I had created too solid a foundation. I was no longer writing this story, it began to write itself. *I* became caught in this disgusting, automatic self-dictation. But I can't fault this world for following the rules I set. I cannot blame anyone but myself.
I can only blame Tony, who is the true author of my misery.
This has been following a theme which I've grown all too tired of revisiting. She asked me to let Her go... and since this is a story, it is very meaningful. The whole situation is very symbolic. The "letting go of Her" is a metaphor. This story began with a woman that broke my heart. It is befitting that it would come full circle and end the same.
I'm proud of you, Johnny. Every abuse I could heap on you - all those protruding compound fractures. Every painfully stretched boil and puss-filled abscess. Every stab, acid etch and splintered rib. Every horrific nightmare and condemnation... you've endured it all. Even your back and hands shattered you crawled this far with only hope to keep you.
Thank you.
I'm sorry you could never win or keep Her love. I'm sorry that this is the happiest ending I can give you. I'm sorry.
I'm so sorry Johnny, but it's really time for us to let Her go now. It's time for me to let go of you.
One reaction, the biggest one, was people I knew started to comment on how talented they thought I was. Or more specifically, "I didn't know you could write."
Another I got (get) was (is), "You're writing is very confusing. I don't understand it at all."
There was also a couple, "God, that's what the world needs is more pretentious crap masquerading itself as literature or art."
I had never set out to impress, cause indifference, or anger anyone. You know, I hardly ever ask what anyone thinks of my writing, mainly because I don't really care. I mean, that's not completely true because I really appreciate when someone enjoys it. I also appreciate it when someone has valid or constructive criticism, because I'd like to think I'm not above looking at myself objectively.
I hope you understand my sincerity when I say that I appreciate it all.
So why was I doing this journal? It was started out of curiosity and boredom, but when it boils down to it... when you stare at the meat and guts of this journal, it is really a kind-of fictionalized documentation of my pain, sorrow and an emptiness that drove me to self-destruction, or occasional (sometimes well-meaning) madness. It was a journal about the mercurial, often terrible, in-between state of consciousness and dreams or nightmares that I seemed to reluctantly inhabit.
It was all real but it was a story, too.
Recently I began to not feel it anymore, so I tried to change some things but I've noticed I inevitably return to the same theme. A dream -- a powerful dream. A dream so close to actualizing that it collapses under the weight of reality, crushing him. And the pain, feeling so... cheated, it drives Johnny to madness again. Nothing is or was as it seemed.
Why must it always return to this for me?
She told me I write beautiful things. So why are my words never enough to keep or save Her love? If it is so beautiful... I mean have you actually read what I write? It is always full of discomfited anger and venomous, vitriolic prose. What I write isn't beautiful, it's ugly on the inside. It's full of jagged wounds that bleed out into the gutter, racing to join the rest of the filth floating in the sewer.
This is the only rhetoric I am able to sustain and why should I be surprised. It all started to take shape around a shattered heart and a pathetic, miserably failed dream. When things started to change though... I had created too solid a foundation. I was no longer writing this story, it began to write itself. *I* became caught in this disgusting, automatic self-dictation. But I can't fault this world for following the rules I set. I cannot blame anyone but myself.
I can only blame Tony, who is the true author of my misery.
This has been following a theme which I've grown all too tired of revisiting. She asked me to let Her go... and since this is a story, it is very meaningful. The whole situation is very symbolic. The "letting go of Her" is a metaphor. This story began with a woman that broke my heart. It is befitting that it would come full circle and end the same.
I'm proud of you, Johnny. Every abuse I could heap on you - all those protruding compound fractures. Every painfully stretched boil and puss-filled abscess. Every stab, acid etch and splintered rib. Every horrific nightmare and condemnation... you've endured it all. Even your back and hands shattered you crawled this far with only hope to keep you.
Thank you.
I'm sorry you could never win or keep Her love. I'm sorry that this is the happiest ending I can give you. I'm sorry.
I'm so sorry Johnny, but it's really time for us to let Her go now. It's time for me to let go of you.