The anxiety of being

The anxiety of being and,
the torturous duty of having to,
the pure need to dominate entirely
The obligation to know completely,
the art itself, from memory, "The Craft",
to develop in that way (eventually)
the intuitive spirit, the inspiration,
the artistic philosophy, The art ... ...!

Adrift in this world I am,
with the need to express something,
everything I feel,
as a man, as an intelligent being,
who thinks, feels, suffers, lives and dies.

And I do not posses the talent, or perseverance, or any thing necessary,
yet I occasionally grab this pen,
and begin to write, and as he who comes too close to
the page to write and sees everything blurry,
I so feel that my ideas and my words are woven into my mind ..
I feel them blurry, illegible, with feet of lead,
Without a defined form,
Interspersed and in primitive state,
With all the strength, but also all the lack of purity and class,
but with certain pain and sorrow ...
of not reaching, or not having a prophetic feeling, which is worse than just feeling.
I sense what I cannot see, I cannot touch.
I feel what I do not comprehend,
But I understand that I am not, until I stop trying…

And so, I do not care then about being, so I just let myself be
and try to give in anyway what I can give, that which is infinitely small but mine,
but my words which “can not”, (the only thing they do consistently well is not being able to) ..., (a bit like my everything, isn’t it??!! )..........

So I like to give anyway, that which is mine as much as what is not, what I say,
which is ultimately the conglomeration of what others have said.

And that “Me”, a part of that smallness, "The General Me", which is even smaller than "The Fragmented me" Oh God ... if I could only get out of this maze ..!!!!! ... With one confusion after another, perhaps I could understand the irony that lies under my writing.
But no, here I am, confused and confounding,
Hunter and prey….. pick and ax….
Dealer takes four and…....I’m out…you win….!!!!

I find it impossible these days to raise from the opaque…. and shine,
Find some common sense out of my constant mental chaos,
which contains me……. no, no, which drags me down,
drifting in the same chaos which I am trying to describe and fail.

And it is then that my pen does not draw poetry or prose, or stories anymore, just symbols with the character of potpourri or exotic omelet of eclectic energy, or just pure anarchy ....and I STOP.


ACD
1-31-90
Modified 5/14/10