UNTO OUR FALLEN MUSE:
Whose Sultry Ravishment Is But Twisted Inspiration:
Unhappily, I find myself searching for inspiration within this drab, unpainted canvass, which supplies no substance or worth unto my weary mind. It would be well if this burden were somehow lifted from me, that I might continue beyond the needs of these artistic bonds, which only serve to shackle me unto this vile, black rock of dim expressions. I am no more than a lowly prisoner unto the overwhelming influence of my fallen muse, whose punishment I must suffer, day by day, until my many labours are deemed complete at last.
Her cravings are insatiable, matched only my ambition to perform; however, I cannot now find the inspiration she would so lovingly bestow, for she is turned from me, into a wild and reckless shadow of her former self. I am clasped within her gaze, unwilling or unable to break its deadly hold upon me, while she whispers cruelty and malice into my waiting heart, expecting: glorious and stunning paintings; vast and meaningful poems; and whole volumes of exquisite pottery to be fashioned in return. For hers is an endless, thankless task, at which I cannot alone succeed.
Still clinging to some false hope of redemption and escape, yet contained within the shattered bastions of memory, I continue ever onwards. Yet, unwilling to forgive myself, I cannot dissolve this vow of service unto a dark, uncaring mistress, who seems only content to bend my will, twist my mind, and break my very soul, with her bleak and scathing burden, which I myself was at once a fool to suppose that I could bear.
Unhappily, I find myself searching for inspiration within this drab, unpainted canvass, which supplies no substance or worth unto my weary mind. It would be well if this burden were somehow lifted from me, that I might continue beyond the needs of these artistic bonds, which only serve to shackle me unto this vile, black rock of dim expressions. I am no more than a lowly prisoner unto the overwhelming influence of my fallen muse, whose punishment I must suffer, day by day, until my many labours are deemed complete at last.
Her cravings are insatiable, matched only my ambition to perform; however, I cannot now find the inspiration she would so lovingly bestow, for she is turned from me, into a wild and reckless shadow of her former self. I am clasped within her gaze, unwilling or unable to break its deadly hold upon me, while she whispers cruelty and malice into my waiting heart, expecting: glorious and stunning paintings; vast and meaningful poems; and whole volumes of exquisite pottery to be fashioned in return. For hers is an endless, thankless task, at which I cannot alone succeed.
Still clinging to some false hope of redemption and escape, yet contained within the shattered bastions of memory, I continue ever onwards. Yet, unwilling to forgive myself, I cannot dissolve this vow of service unto a dark, uncaring mistress, who seems only content to bend my will, twist my mind, and break my very soul, with her bleak and scathing burden, which I myself was at once a fool to suppose that I could bear.
posted by Valhenstrogg | Thursday, May 12, 2005
1 Comments:
Aside from indulging me within my own personal obsessions and various compulsions, accurately described above, I would ask that you forgive your humble child-philosopher, who had, until this very moment, most erroneously believed that his meandering and cryptic web-log was alternately titled: Unto Our Broken Muse.
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