Archetypes of loneliness.

There is a fish in the northern darkness and his name is K'un.

There exists a certain amount of bullshit that need be cleared before the true voice writhes its way to the surface. That is why we are here, now. Expelling the fecal matter that has so clogged my brain pipes and smearing it around in words on this luminescent white page. A more showing receptacle there exists not. Painting, sculpture - all other forms of art allow for subterfuge behind the abstract, for the expulsion of intangible feeling into a medium that remains at most an enigma to the subsequent viewer. Words, on the other hand, mean something. They have purpose. They are by definition comprehensible. The existence of words grants immediately a glimpse into the mind of the author, and this can be frightening. Perhaps this is why the task is so simultaneously arduous and attractive. Why the page pushes and the notion pulls. It is fearfully that my inner workings arrange themselves into palpable existence. Why fear? Well it's simple really. The fear exists because up until the moment they are finger typed and placed upon this page, the feelings, workings, the infinite inner life that swirls inside every one of us, is unknown.

Writing is a kind of revelation, an announcement of the soul, and if it is done as it should be - truly, honestly, and openly from heart to page and without a conscious filter - then one will not know the nature of the beast to be revealed. A certain courage is required to look upon the man inside, as is. The ego has its own ideas and is not open to challenge. I think what is especially fearful, for all artists, is that what comes out might not be as exceptional, as brilliant, as the centre of the universe (the individual) decrees their self to be. Understandably. I mean each human is the progenitor of their own universe, right? A god unto themselves. Their own alpha, and figurative omega. The creator of all things. It makes sense we might think of ourselves as just a little special. Unadulterated expression has the power to threaten this notion of self. Thus the more egoic, the larger the mountain seems. The more you have to live up to. The more psychically at stake. In a nutshell: if you want to be an artist drop the ego and allow yourself to suck. Obviously. No duh. It always ends in cliche.

I would like to be able to escape this introspective analysis of the human state, to write a story, pen a narrative that grips you by the throat and demands you beg for more. I try. But every time I do it sucks, and my ego just can't handle.